Twenty-Forty-Two.

Is that a date? Ha, wouldn’t you like to know. There isn’t any significance to the number, only that it appeared in my head and the number sounded kind of cool - twenty-forty-two. It has a beat. Twenty-Forty-Two. Two syllables for twenty and forty. One for two.

None of this has any matter. Nothing new.

Imagine if we could access memories entirely? Like those people with photographic memories. Wouldn’t that make everything much easier?

I had some thoughts the other day but I couldn’t remember them. That’s strange, isn’t it? We’re not born literate. Literacy is quite simply our greatest form of memory, to some extent. That isn’t necessarily true, but it’s the closest - and furthest - we can get from having a memory. We create fake memories, in a way, with stories. But isn’t that strange? That so much of our ability to remember is in our ability to read and write and that isn’t an inherited trait. We have to learn it. We all have to learn it. Over and over again. That goes for those who are new to this world and for those who are already in it, by the way.

We can speak to each other. We can pass stories down from person to person, as a way to transfer a memory. In general, our memories are ultimately fiction anyway. We have arguments with people based on something that happened five-seconds prior, and the memories between people are different from each other. But, it happened five-seconds ago? Probably more like ten, now.

So, what are we doing? I can re-read the beginning of this post and see what I wrote a mere five-minutes ago. Incredible. It’s all there. Every letter. But even I can change the past. I can rewrite the post. I can rewrite the memory. Will this be a memory? Gone in the wind, I predict.