We are blessed with emotions – joy, sadness, fear, anger, and so on. I wonder, though, which amongst these complicated feelings dominate the rest? In other words, what drives us to work, to study, to… be alive?
In search of an answer, I decided to venture into my room of memories – dark, deprived of light. After all, it is in our infant years when we are undistracted by superficial motives – wealth, fame, power – and completely driven by our instincts. So, with a broken flashlight, I entered the room.
The recalling was tough, like venturing into a room devoid of light. I can sense the presence of objects, yet I can neither see nor understand them. Occasionally, though, the flashlight would work, allowing me to see instants – or longer moments – of what was in front of me, whether it be a bed or a car. Eventually, I managed to gain insight on the items in my memory room:
Under the bed
I’m hiding.
I’m hiding under the bed.
Mom calls my name. I still hide.
Under the bed, I can see the feet of a giant.
Under the bed, I can see a pair of broken glasses.
Drown
In water. Deep pool.
Sunlight coming from above. I need air.
Arms and feet kicking. I need air.
Far from the surface. I need air.
Encompassing hands grab me and lift me. I got air.
Tomato
Blue lights. Brown room.
Someone gives me a baby tomato.
Tomato has sugar on it. I eat it.
I like tomato. I eat again.
It hurts
I shut it. The door.
Pain comes from my foot.
Toe under door. I cannot move toe.
I scream. Mom comes to help.
It hurts. I cry.
Lost
Night. Crowded place in a square.
Mom and Dad looking at roast necks of ducks. I don’t like necks.
I like lanterns. Look at those pretty lanterns.
Red, yellow, orange… Mom? Dad?
Gone.
I walk. I walk. I walk.
Someone grabs me from behind.
It’s Mom.
Gifts
In my room.
Gifts on the table and on the floor.
I open one. Pink one, with hearts on them.
Inside, a pretty Barbie.
Blonde hair, bloody eyes.
Break
I’m sitting. Piano is in front.
I play with my necklace.
It’s gold. So shiny.
Mom slaps my hand.
Necklace falls. Necklace breaks.
Fall
Concrete road.
I play.
I run.
I fall.
Bloody knee.
Eew
I’m sitting beside table. I’m not at home.
Mom leaves.
I look at food on table.
Beans. Carrots. Broccoli.
I don’t like vegetables. Eew.
Paint
On floor, paper and paints.
I like paint. I put paint on paper.
Paint got on clothes.
I’m scared.
Burn
Square chocolate cake on table.
Dad is hugging me from behind.
Lighters on his hands.
Click.
Fire comes out from lighter.
Burn on arm. I cry.
Walk
I’m walking on the street. Beside me, Mom and Dad.
I’m sleepy.
Dad carries me. I sleep.
Door clicks open. I wake.
Car
On pavement. I step onto road.
I walk.
Someone pulls me from behind.
A car flies by in front.
Conclusion
I have recalled thirteen flashes of baby me: random, disconnected, unclear. I may just be an extremely pessimistic individual, but it just happens that the memories which shone through the dark room are mostly negative. A sense of fear echoes prominently amongst them: fear of dying, fear of being scolded, fear of pain, and such. Perhaps, I – or we – am programmed to remember most vividly moments of fear. Memory simply works that way.
Fear drives me, as is evident in my early memories. I study hard in fear of disappointing my parents. I act friendly in fear of being isolated. I do assigned works in fear of failing a class. The list goes on. It’s a possibility that no one is truly “good” in the world; all acts are performed under the fear of being alone, guilty, or despised.
