I just had a sobering, melancholy realization. There is now really nobody living who knew me as a child. My faulty memory leaves me struggling to define my past. Nobody can help recount the stories, flesh out my history. I have no idea how to define the gaps in time, the memories I may never regain. - I mean big things. They're dissolving. The people I hold dearest are people who have no idea who I've been, and how that bears on what I have become, in this sense. I am uncertain whether I could ever adequately represent even a fraction of the whole. Coming from a traumatically splintered history into the cryptic present, it's no wonder I feel so disconnected.