I‘ve been sitting here thinking about Paris. Flipping through the last month of my journal, trying to feel like I was there again. And feeling nothing. Do you know that sense of disconnect from memories?
I have the hardest time recalling the past.
So I read through the memories, walking across le pont des arts at dusk, the Palais du Louvre, wandering in the enchanting Père Lachaise cemetary, yada yada yada…I don’t want to bore you with them—this isn’t a walk down memory lane, don’t worry—but what I’m trying to figure out is why they feel like they happened to someone else. I can’t remember what it felt like to take the last metro home and walk down rue Brochant, even though I can see myself doing all of that, like a movie. I can see the scene, hear the soundtrack, picture the actress…but I can’t feel it.
So my mind tries to run through why I feel that sense of disconnect with the past, any past, no matter how clearly I recall the memory…and it could be because I am not in that environment now, because I live six thousand kilometers away, because my current surroundings are so different. I suspect it is a bit of all of these reasons and because I’m myself experiencing and thinking different things.
Perhaps the most difficult thing with memories is not recalling the instants, but trying to remember what it was like to be you at that point, because lessons, experiences, interactions you’ve had since then have become such a part of you that you can’t dissociate yourself from them long enough to remember what it was like not being you right now.
Maybe it’s better that way…the saving grace of memno-amensia?