I’m not sure where to begin, but I suppose it should be at the beginning. I’m told it’s a very good place to start.

Too bad I don’t know when that is.

I remember being here, now. I remember being there, then. I don’t remember where, when, or how it started. All I know is once it was, now it is, and it will be further down along the line. But without a foundation, how is the house of my story still standing? Why is it not sinking into the abyss of unwritten, nameless history?I believe that it is magic that holds this bridge together without the necessary bolts and ties that are usually necessary. It is all just some fanciful wish that came true who knows how long ago and is keeping time with me as I walk about on the walls and ceilings of my home.

Gravity is overrated. I don’t follow its rules when I don’t have to.

So I just roam the confines of my mind, climbing and clamoring about in and out of doors I didn’t remember existed. I just keep opening and shutting gateways into the past, present, and future, never really paying attention to what is happening on the other side of my consciousness. It’s just there, hassling me out of my journey. I must have realized that before, because there is a system from the beginning, before I can force myself to recall, sitting in the corner gathering a fine dust collection on its face. I haven’t touched it since before I can remember. It just whirs and spins from time to time, trying keeping itself awake as I roam about trying to forget that there is anything on the outside to respond to, trying to remember what I am so afraid of responding to. I think it’s what keeps the body going while I explore the mind.

I’ve been wandering since I woke up and couldn’t remember. I started at the middle a long time ago, and I’ve been working outward ever since; opening doors, closing doors, dusting shelves, clearing cobwebs, climbing staircase after staircase after staircase into another door that remained open for some reason or another.

Occasionally I open a room that I remember, and somehow I recall what was there when, who was there when, and when I was there. Other times, I don’t. Here and there, picture frames flash on dusty shelves, lined with age, filled with cracking glass, showcasing some memory that I’m sure I should remember.

It’s too bad I don’t.

I pick them up for a minute or two, run my finger carefully over the sharp glass, tracing the faces, searching for a name, a voice, a time; usually nothing comes. But I’ll catch snippets of memories here and there, floating about in the air just out of reach. Sometimes they are generous and come down to perch on my shoulders. Other times, they like to flutter and call out at me, but never come down. So I leave them for a few days. Eventually, they’ll all come back. They get lonely, just like me. I guess in a way, we need each other.

But until they come, all I can do is open and shut those doors.

Truth be told, I was afraid of trying to find anything when I first woke up. There were so many stairs that I was worried I would get lost in the oblivion of my mind. There were so many doors I thought I could never open them all, much less remember what was inside of them by the time I closed them up again. And that machine kept whirring and buzzing obnoxiously from its little corner.

And finally, I opened the first door, the closest door. Dust spewed up in a little cloud around my feet, lifting up in a vicious attack on my eyes. I batted the mob away, coughing, and blinked to regain what little sight I had. And the room stared back. It was fairly empty. A few faded pillows were lying on top of a shoddily made bed. Two shelves were filled with old pictures, the figures so withered and gray that I couldn’t see any faces. A rug curled at the foot of the bed, trying to warm to cold floor with its threadbare, washed out color. And I froze. I knew this place. I knew I slept there sometime. I knew I had been there. I knew I wanted to be there once. But I couldn’t remember why. I jumped out and slammed the door, my heart pounding in my chest like a sporadic beat of a bongo drum. But by then my curiosity had been enticed with a taste of a memory, and I was ravenous after that. I raced up and down countless staircases, throwing door after door after door open, racking every fiber of my memory to find something, anything. Unfortunately, nothing came of that expedition.

Eventually, I calmed myself to a decent pace. A few doors a day, cleaning and shining up tarnished recollections that still hung about, gleaming in the dulled gray light of my mind. More came, some still stayed hidden in the darkness of closet shadows, where no man dare travel, least of all me. So I leave them be. Sometimes I forget to come back, sometimes I don’t want to go back. But eventually, that little machine in the corner will stop whirring, and I’ll have to leave this place and live with the few bits and pieces of the past that I can find while I’m here. Until then, I suppose all I can do is keep cleaning, keep searching, keep hoping that the machine won’t break today.

I’m not sure when to stop, but I suppose it should be at the end. I’m told it’s a very good place to do so.

Too bad I don’t know when that is.