A Theorem on Incompleteness

I’ve gotten used to being unable to remember a lot of things. In the past, it brought me immense pain when I failed to remember what others remembered with ease. It used to hurt me, but it eventually became more of a burden than anything. Even if it hasn’t been a severe problem since then, I still felt anguish. Anguish about not even sharing the same reality with others.

I’ve only been given the option to believe the memories of others since I’ve long since forgotten my own. But I have been able to slowly piece my past life through them. It feels strange that I’ve become more familiar with myself only through others. A life experienced only through what others recall is a reality that I’ve long since been accustomed to. But honestly, I’ve never warmed up to this idea.

Forgetting things such as places and events are things I feel tremendously saddened about for sure. Being confused at someone’s sure recollection is an awkward and sickening feeling to experience. Their word is generally to be heeded as truth. I’m really in no position to say if it wasn’t anyhow. I’ve been able to at least dull the pain that comes from this. But I found myself being unable to do so when it came to forgetting people.

I was able to identify my family easily when I first woke up. Of course I couldn’t remember who they were, but their presence invoked a strange familiarity. My life seemed naturally aligned with them. It was a lot harder for everyone else I previously knew however. The few friends I had learned early on the difficulties of building a friendship from the ground up once again. I suppose being faced with this, they all distanced themselves away from me.

My childhood friends knew that they were strangers to me. It was a scary thing to be on the receiving end. Someone changing completely and befriending what replaced that previous life is a tough thing to encounter—especially for a child. It’s hard to really recover from that kind of thing. It was an exercise in the impossible. It was like attempting to salvage something unsalvageable. That sort of pain hasn’t lessened even with time. I really don’t think I’d be able to do anything about that. Perhaps that’s why forgetting someone so special was all the more painful.

Who was this Ichiko? The best I could answer that question was a faint caricature I assembled in my mind. I tried to envision a part of her personality and what I knew about our interactions. This was a futile thing. It was a shadow of a person I didn’t all too well. The more I prescribed memories and traits, the lesser the resemblance towards a living, breathing person was. I was only getting so far, but at a certain point it helped not to believe or attach anything towards the name.

This person from my past was more like folklore and myth than part of a concrete history. No, it was as if she was the center of a collective dream. It was a freefrom thing everyone considered to be true. But I’d forget when I’d wake up. It didn’t exist beyond what a dream-like version of myself had experienced. At least, that’s what it felt like. If I could manage to recall it, then I doubt I’d ever let it go. I am unable to remember dreams of this kind. I’m cursed to not know how to recollect dreams.

This was a fanatical dream so close and indistinguishable from reality that I had feigned the line between the two. Even more spectacularly, others had been able to recall this dream and spoke to me of a great illustrious tapestry. They described a life that had fit within what I learned about myself that explained the blankness and haziness of certain periods in my life.

It was a dream that felt truer than any reality. It was natural that she had a place within my past. The culmination of the person I was and am was founded whether I had remembered or not. I could be sure that this dream was fiction. It was a meandering dreamscape that imitated life. This was a life that I had experienced whether I was able to recall it the following morning.

It was a reality robbed from me. I realized that these weren’t dreams nor lies. A part of myself recognized that there was immeasurable truth in my mother’s voice. That truth, despite being a clouded one, was a certain reality. I am not certain of a lot of things, but I don’t lie to myself, especially towards what stood before me as truth.

Everything was true, it felt right. But my belief had to be founded no matter how much I believed it to be true. Believing in something didn’t mean it was reality. No matter what my mind told me about her existing, I simply had to know for myself. I had to know if I could be sure of this grandiose truth. I’d have to participate in this confirmation.

I laid there vehemently now without any doubt and uneasiness. I was overjoyed. She seemed to be one of the few people that I’d almost known for a lifetime. I haven’t the faintest idea of the time we had. Even with my current self, I still retained this feeling of familiarity. It was as if my fleeting memories wouldn’t permit me to distance myself from her. I didn’t feel disheartened, no I felt joyous.

But slowly that happiness seemed to fade away as I came to realize the absurdity of it. She was still condemned to the same fate as the others in my past. I couldn’t remember her. I couldn’t collect my thoughts about this person. I couldn’t form an image of who she was. I grew frustrated and annoyed. I felt I deserved to remember these people. It was as if I tossed a stone across a lake, but was only allowed to witness the ripples as the stone sunk deep towards the bottom. I couldn’t see the beautiful parts of my memory, only the aftermath and the lingering emotions tied to them.

I was done thinking about all of this. I couldn’t think more about this that wouldn’t just return to the same thoughts of anguish, weariness, happiness and salvation.I wanted to reorient my thoughts. I returned to the math problem sitting at my desk, but found myself unable to move my pen. It was like that for a few minutes. I questioned why I couldn’t make the first stroke. I summed it up as my body being tired.

That was only a granule of the truth. I still thought about Ichiko and couldn’t stop thinking about her. I was scared. I carried an uneasy feeling about returning to a childhood I cannot remember. How could I confront a part of my life that is better off being called someone else’s. I worried about how I could get along with someone who only knew their side of our friendship. How could I connect with a person and learn more about my past without that knowledge?

I want answers more than anything else. It’s terrifying to explore a life that both is and isn’t mine. I’m certainly not the person who spent my childhood with people such as Ichiko. But with all those years that have passed by, I doubt that either one of us could still hold onto their childhood convictions and traits. We should be expected to change throughout that stretch of time. I’ve certainly changed a lot I’d say.