What is memory?

We reconstruct memories, one by one. We recognize the smell, the touch, the colors, and the way everything made us feel, and then we realize that one memory cannot be only one. There are countless others in it, all those fragments of short film frames in our head where the brain, with its fascinating ability, collects, connects, and creates mosaics of long impressions that appear in milliseconds. And they are the basis of one memory. By default, they are the basis of ourselves. And this isn’t just a metaphysical kind of poetics. It cannot be. Thinking about it, we can conclude that every experience coming from the sensors of our mind triggers changes in the molecules of neurons and reshapes the way they connect, which means that our brains are of memory, and memories are constantly renewing. And that, again, is the foundation of ourselves, of everything that’s within us, everything that completes our thoughts, a continuous process, an unexplainable flow of memories and recollections of what drives or restrains us.

The definition of remembrance is as hard as the definition of time that creates it. What’s unique is that each memory can be linked to a completely different memory from a different dimension, each in its unique way, producing confusion and chaos for us. But it also provides us a look from a different view to something that we once intentionally, or accidentally bury or lose in the sea of ​​memory. And, within it is a network making those specific connections, synapses, which can tune to stronger or weaker signals of the mind. But, it would be wrong to say that the molecules and synapses they control are memories because it’s all a system. A system that lets us know that we are human, that it makes us more than physical, apparent, and uncomplicated. It enables us to link something from the past with something in our future and to respond to different challenges, producing memories in the present. Even the initial, most significant human memories begin with a granular scale, and it’s difficult to arrange them within one image, to discover a definite beginning from each memory because it doesn’t consist of only one, right? Thought after thought, memory by memory, and the meaning of something we cannot touch, but make us happier and more peaceful, with the necessity to sink into that world of scattered thoughts and surrender to an infinite amount of tricks. No memory can arise from itself, nor exist by itself.

The brain breaks the experience into many temporal experiences at the same time, such as the sound being decomposed into various frequencies colliding in space, simultaneously. Individual memories exist in multiple time windows of different lengths that include each fragment of memory invisible on the scale at which you experience a particular event that you remember. And what about those memories that cannot stand alone, dependent on others following them? We can’t do anything, and we shouldn’t even challenge them. They are here to remind us that everything we remember can also suppress us, but we cannot escape it, memories that hurt, pierce and torment us, those that prefer to appear when we least need them. They make our darkroom, and we are only human, hanging on to the threads, sustained by memories, always keep us with a tendency to think more than we ought to, we challenge them to start rewinding in our brains, over and over again. And we crumple the film tape, burn it, and cut it, but it’s indestructible.

And, our head is throbbing, full of memories and molecules trying to control the connections of different memories, so we explore through our minds perseveringly for the store of all those memories, only to realize that no place contains them. Because we are our memories, made up of ourselves, and what we remember, what we forget, what we collect, creating mosaics and mazes. We are bound by our thoughts, crucified between them. We are our memories, and they are us, unexplained, undefined, content lost in every theory, but the basis of what we are and the moments of which we are composed. Moments without which we wouldn’t be human, and without which memories wouldn’t be able to make people out of us.

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