hyperthymesia (the prologue)

null frame. silver sun.

The autumn sun's last warmth on my eyelashes felt like the final honeyed ray before winter's gray skies and the dusk of my life. I was in Purgatory, simply awaiting the decision that my self was going to make, and on which I couldn't offer him any advice. The plane was reserved for eleven o'clock.

I stood up, a formless creature: a projection of my past memories, as they ran through my veins. I brushed the wet sand mixed with small polished rocks off my clothes and, in a thoughtless, tangled trail, made my way towards the sea, its crashing waves and salty mist greeting me without causing a flinch. I liked this fresh feeling; for some reason, it made me unconditionally, childishly happy — as if school had ended, and I was back home, free to roam and build sand castles. But it was all a distant picture now, etched almost twelve years ago.

The golden celestial circle gradually disappeared behind the sea horizon, shining with a white glow — the ache in my chest grew stronger. The colors of the sunset danced across the water: unsaturated blue, tainted by fleeting bursts of colors, with a slight tint of green, milk foam; the movement of waves was similar to grass in the wind when I used to ride a horse in a meadow: so free, broad, suffocating with possibilities; the horizon was as distant as I remembered it during my free skating on wild ice; it sang of loss and home, it felt to the touch like a perfect place to lay and die in — peacefulness would come way before the senses stopped responding, and you were immersed into a sweet acceptance.

In the photo, there was a brushstroke of pink and blue below, grayish orange above, clouds like ghosts, a bright, blinding sun. A grain overlay sealed the moment, reminding me that it had already passed. I was only holding it in my hands as a black strip, and in my memories that were destined to fade over time. It's never about physical sensations; to them, I was immune — the beach was a prism of words, abrupt images, allegories, metaphors. These I captured in my white poems as a feeble attempt to record a composition: blurry, chaotic, full of action, with a glow of the sky, unfiltered and symbolic.

Yet neither method of attempting to preserve memories indefinitely proved successful, as one persistent question remained — where was the truth? In the present, influenced by my never-ending stream of consciousness, in the overexposed film tape, securing just a small rectangle of what was dear to me, or accurately composed stanza, that I rewrote so many times that it may have already lost the original rawness?

Or the truth is here. With my eyes closed, I immersed my fingers into the tickling foam, then further, deeper, feeling a soft sea floor. It never fails to fill me with fascination how painfully familiar yet deeply unknown my home was. Amidst this shifting landscape, there existed no steadfast foundation, no everlasting feeling in my life, save for this pitiful water-touching. Technically, I can turn on the sink water and call it home with my level of delusion. But I'm here, actually here, not dreaming. Does it make me feel better? I can't say for sure. The sea's whispering would help me if I could understand it, but instead, I was abandoned here to muse my silly musings and wait for my fate to be decided.

My mother's, sister's, wife's love would make me feel less lonely — a sudden thought occurred, while my fingertips played with soulless liquid. It wasn't new, just an unreachable panacea, scratching my soul every time I try to pretend that I'm content. And as if I was confessing my sins to the Universe, I whispered in the air, "Alright, I'm not." The ocean instantly felt colder as I said it, but I wouldn't apologize. I was overwhelmed by fleeting images — my gentle forest fairy playing with my hair on this very sand, it was winter; my sister building sand stars only for them to be destroyed by giant waves, her face concealed by brown curls; my grandfather holding my tiny hand in his and telling me, "This is your birthplace," I couldn't picture his figure anymore. I was standing at the same spot as he did, and my silhouette was just as blurry and uncertain.