People say it’s the smell you try to hold on to. The smell of a person. Clothes. Blankets. Cushions. After they’ve gone. Of course this is true. I’ve lived through it. What’s less noted is the way voices come and go. The first time I realised I could no longer wholly recall your voice, after a couple of years or so, it was terrifying. I felt ashamed. To only have this faint echo of something. And then it came back strong. Sometime later. Suddenly. You were there. We spoke. And then you went again.
You come in waves, tidal remembrances.
But if a human being is ones and noughts, a sequenced code, and if one digit were to become transposed, to throw the scheme off kilter, then what? Then all is possible. It is a depthless abyss, not sunk into experience but spreading. Bodies and minds transformed, and those new bodies and minds transforming actions, reactions, hopes, despair, our very sense of grief and good. But if a human being is just machine code that can be hacked, broken, then what? When the circuitry is re-routed, when evil comes, then what? Then we all must ask what we are, too.