Time is eating away my memory. Time, and this illness, this trespasser in my brain.

Accept that there are things in this world we can never explain and life will be understandable. That is the irony of life. It is also the beauty of it.

Die while I can still remember who I am, who I used to be.

For what is a person without memories? A ghost, trapped between worlds, without an identity, with no future, no past.

To have memories, happy or sorrowful, is a blessing, for it shows we have lived our lives without reservation.

Memories I had locked away have begun to break free, like shards of ice fracturing off an arctic shelf. In sleep, these broken floes drift toward the morning light of remembrance.

I have become a collapsing star, pulling everything around it, even the light, into an ever-expanding void. Once I lose all ability to communicate with the world outside myself, nothing will be left but what I remember. My memories will be like a sandbar, cut off from the shore by the incoming tide. In time they will become submerged, inaccessible to me. The prospect terrified me. For what is a person without memories? A ghost, trapped between worlds, without an identity, with no future, no past.