I struggle to recall anything before my middle school years. The earliest memory I can conjure up is when I was three. My family and I were going to take a family picture and I remembered being carried on the sidewalk as we went to the photo studio. I remember the billboard, the afternoon sun, the electric pole. Yet, I can scantly remember the photo studio itself. Perhaps it can be argued that the only reason this memory stuck with me is due to the physical evidence of the event, which is the picture. There are other fragments of memories such as the texture and scent of my pillow case, however, that too, has a photographic evidence of baby me smiling and that exact pillow being behind me.

I suppose what I am trying to say is about the ephemeral nature of moment to moment experience. Over the course of the past five years, I felt a deep sorrow and longing for those lost memories. Like water that slips through the cracks of my fingers, no matter how hard I desperately press my hands together to hold them. Before long, there is nothing left but my hands holding onto nothing-- the present. My childhood felt so long, yet upon recollection, I can not conjure any concrete experience. Only the impression that I once had friends, yet I can't put neither faces nor names on them. This, too, had brought upon me great sorrow. As if I had betrayed them by forgetting about them.

I mentioned how I truly achieved consciousness around middle school years. The times I spent in my childhood were like a distant dream I can't seem to recall. The few glimpses I do recall were moments of grieves and pain. Regrets stubbornly lingering within the deep recesses of my mind as if they are taunting me. As for the moment to moment joys I've felt, I can't remember them. I don't remember the daily lives and the friends. I only remember the partings and the overbearing sense of guilt. Perhaps one day I will write a journal on guilt as I have plenty of things to say on that.

This is really rambling, but to circle back on my main point, I do not believe I was conscious before I was in middle school. I was living without consciousness. No memories imprinted upon the soul, yet the wounds inflicted on it still left their scars. Similar thing happened later on in my life during my decade of NEET life. To this day, I still have no idea what it is I was doing for that long. It was like a black ink blot was spilt on my history, completely engulfing that period of my life in confusion and thick impenetrable haze. The only thing I can remember is the rationalization of it after the fact. That I was living day in and day out without much changing. Yet, I can't recall the actual day to day part.

I suppose it was around three to four years ago that I regained my consciousness. One day I simply thought this can not continue, and from then on memories were starting to form again. I remember feeling immense resentment at myself, swearing to always remain conscious of all things. Even as I write this, I feel every breath I take. The sensation of my fingers moving across the keyboard. The wind from the fan blowing against my back. I must be present and aware at all time. It is exhausting and sometimes I slip back into the hazy fog, however, this is not something to be negotiated upon. I refuse to lose consciousness again.

My only regret is that I truly can not recall any of my friends from childhood. Not even the name of my friend who I played with everyday. Do they, too, have forgotten about me? If so, then I wish they do not feel the same guilt that I do for it.