If I reach back now, the earliest memory I could remember was waking up in our old maid’s room. I think I was four years old back then and I was being taken care of by my Yaya. There was music wafting in from somewhere, some old ditty that escapes me.
I woke up vaguely self aware – a part of me was thinking that I was unique, that I was the only one who was truly conscious. It was a strange sensation, almost a self attribution of being special somehow.
I remember I had vivid dreams back then. I was flying down the stairs for some reason and I had a cape. For the life of me, I did not even know if I had realized I was emulating Superman, a hero I would grow up to find boring.
I remember a few other things: an incident where a mother accused me of throwing stones at her son; biking with a girl who would grow up to be a minor celebrity; Sunday afternoons spent with my mother while she was burning the trash; the first girl I ever fell in love with. Random memories that crept up on me while I was trying to sleep, taking one part of the cocktail of drugs that my psychiatrist prescribes to me to keep me sane.
There is a strange quality to my memories now. Less emotion, less cringing at horrible moments, less joy at the intersections of happiness. But I remember them nonetheless.
The strange thing is, I do not remember HER anymore. Wait, remembering is not the proper term. I still know who she is, but she is not a vivid part of my memory anymore. Maybe the drugs are working. Maybe it dulls me to painful things. I do not know really.
I wonder what memories tonight will bring.
Ang Huling Hugotero