I couldn’t remember a thing I had done all day. And that is the way it has been ever since I could remember. Yes, the pun was intended. The joys of being marginalised socially was that I could enjoy the solace of my blank mind without unsuspecting folk being eaten alive with my irritation of being dragged into conversations. Ones I anyway never remembered. My mind would remain blank this way. Not to say thoughts didn’t cross my mind, but a fleeting few seconds later, I couldn’t remember. The lack of retaining thoughts of any kind, the persisting emptiness was often consoling. It was better than the gnawing feeling that used to eat at me earlier: Did I forget something important today? I made my peace with it eventually. After 60 years of no memory retention, one gets used to it. But the irony was today was no different from yesterday and tomorrow would be the same, too. This bothered me sometimes. If I didn’t live a decent life even for myself, then life just didn’t seem worth living. Particularly a life without any special friends, charm or even thoughts. But that is the life I had accustomed myself to. A long time ago, a therapist told me that I should write and keep re-reading what I write. Since I suffered from memory loss, it was the only way to leave a mark. So when I die, my house will be full of scribbled paper. Maybe somebody could make sense of it.