There’s this poster in Ms. Mark’s classroom with a quote from Maya Angelou: “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” I was skeptical; how could one possibly be unaware of the details of what was said and done, yet still remember the impact with perfect clarity?
As I look back on all the adventures I’ve procrastinated work to go on, side quests I stumbled upon, rabbit holes I’ve lost sleep to go down — none of them truly feel real.
Logically, I know that I have lived all of these moments; these are indisputably my experiences. The countless letters to people that will never be sent, and the notebook pages covered in ink stains and eraser crumbs strewn about my desk are all futile attempts at proof. The photos that fill my phone storage and the laughter-filled corroboration of my friends are all evidence enough. The 23 photos and videos I have of Hanoi Kitchen — a strange restaurant that seems to turn into a nightclub at 9 p.m. with fog machines, lasers and all — are certainly real.
The incredulity I felt that night comes easily, almost without thinking. And yet, my memories of that event feel as clouded as the smoke-filled restaurant itself. Trying to remember anything brings up scenes that look as if they were filmed on a GoPro camera mounted behind my eyes, every remembered experience just a third-person mirage. My memories are a playback of some footage I know I experienced, yet cannot ground in my own two feet.
As I view replays of my life in a literal third person perspective, the countless experiences and memories of my life bleed together in motion blur. Everything feels like it’s been swung around, compressed, wrung and discarded. It’s like taking a long exposure photo, but accidentally moving the camera — everything moves too quickly to see, yet the core subject of the image remains undeniable.
In the murky haze, I try to find the exact words I heard, try to feel the myriad texture under my fingers, but I never can. As I play back the life that my eyes have fought to record every waking hour of every day, I can’t feel the minutiae which would prove an experience real. I can’t read my memories well enough to recall sights and scenes in enough detail to relive them. I can’t find any specific evidence that I actually experienced something in my own body. Living as a stranger in my own recollections — that’s terrifying to me.
But despite the fact that I can’t precisely recall any details that would allow me to view and review a memory, I still remember how I felt in those moments. My joy was real. My sorrow was real. Every sticky note strewn about my desk, every wax-sealed letter, every drop of ink that stains my hands as I attempt to remember in the first place — are real.
That’s real enough for me.
