The intricate workings of our memory, how they unfold, are a marvel to behold. Like a painter’s brush upon the canvas, our minds create vivid portraits of our lives – the echoes of voices, the visages of faces, the tapestry of events. It captures our essence, our perceptions, our thoughts. It is a curious phenomenon, for some among us retain memories of our very infancy, from a tender age of one or even earlier, while others find conscious recollections awakening only at the age of five. Yet, hidden within the recesses of our minds, our brains store every fragment of information, meticulously recording all that unfolds before us. And yet, for reasons unbeknownst, it veils this wealth from our conscious grasp.

But one thing remains certain: love, it transcends the confines of mere neural imprints. It resides not only in the chambers of our brain but also in the echoes of our hearts, the rhythm of our bodies, and the depths of our souls. Love persists, even when the cherished ones depart. My love for you, dear mama, knows no bounds, reaching beyond the moon. I not only remember you, but I cherish you in this very moment, here and now…

My earliest vivid recollection is of taking my first tentative steps, guided by my mother’s gentle hand. I was but a babe, not even a year old. It was the season of spring, I can still envision myself adorned in tights and a dress. Oh, mother, spring has vanished, and with it, the room and the garments we once knew. Gone is my childhood, and even your earthly presence. Yet, our love, it endures, dear mama. Death holds no dominion over its eternal flame.

Life, it rarely unfolds as expected, and perhaps it could have been different, for hindsight colors everything. However, I revel in the captivating unpredictability that life offers—a symphony arranged not by the hand of man but by the divine orchestrator. Like assembling Malevich’s Black Square, I find delight in piecing together the enigmatic puzzle of existence.

I am akin to the wind, a ray of sunshine piercing through the depths of a dimly lit room. To my father, I represent the last day of Pompeii, for natural calamities lie beyond our control, and we are bound by their whims. It is evident that I, with my energy, and my father’s profound love for me, share an affinity for this interdependence.

Once, a person portrayed their perception of me. Their description still lingers within the recesses of my mind, steadfast and unyielding. They envisioned a dark room, a room suffused in ebony. Suddenly, a slender beam of light pierced through the obscurity, casting its radiance into the void. Chaotically, it danced, ricocheting, trembling, even flickering in its fervor. Its speed accelerated, at times vanishing in a fleeting instant, only to reemerge once more. To witness this spectacle is bewildering, for it defies comprehension. One can only observe and feel.

I find solace in this comparison, as it mirrors my perception of self with unyielding accuracy. That, my dear friends, is who I am.