The Strange Quiet of Things Misplaced is the next step in my ongoing enquiry into identity. It deals with the unreliability of our recollections.
Memory is a mystery. We imagine it as being some sort of a cupboard where things are stored and pulled out when needed. But sometimes things are misplaced and it's only then, when our memory failed us that we brood over its nature. We ask ourselves how could we forget…?
The passing of time and current circumstances - perceived and real - have a bearing on memory. Our recollections are often incomplete. Can we ever be sure that they are accurate? Can we be sure that it's really the same memory we were missing?
What a question, one might say, after all we were there. But we can all name at least one situation when what we thought to be a very clear and accurate memory of an event was being challenged by the recollections of others who were also there.
When we realise that we're forgetting things we are worried or even scared. We feel amazed and surprised at the quietness and the perfection with which our memories snuck away.
How many more memories disappeared without us noticing? And the recovered memories – faint and incomplete – are they accurate?
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