It’s said that we cannot recall memories earlier than the age of 3 or 4, and anything this young is blurry, unreliable, or at the worst, a completely fabricated story our brain has crafted in order to fill in the missing pieces.
Sometimes someone comes along and says they have a perfectly preserved memory from the age of two and I wonder if they are pulling back some truly repressed shit, or if they’ve simply created this world for themselves and are the most psychopathic among us.
It is a blessing to forget those years. Pooping. Screaming. Crying. Confused. The sheer insanity of learning every single thing you see all at once. The neurons stretching out and bursting, breaking, plastic melting, your brain growing and on fire, exploding. And pooping. And screaming. and crying. But you don’t know why.
I don’t remember much from being little, just snapshots. I remember a mossy covered sidewalk. I remember a dog. I remember the smell of a house I was only in once in a city I couldn’t place if you asked me to try.
I always thought that consciousness is what makes us human, and alive, but what a strange consciousness it is. A passing kind of consciousness. A charging stage where we exist mostly just to boot up into our solid selves.
I wonder what the brain of an infant would do in my body. Right now. Sky and trees and cars and wind and dirt and the slightly sickening smell of tuna and day old creamer. A bee buzzes along the bush outside while I type. I wonder if I would absorb these things all at once, or one at a time. If my eyes rocking back and forth along like a scanner would present a picture that made sense on the other side. Or if, simply, i would be screaming, and crying, and pooping. Because life without experience is simply terrifying.