It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? To try and recall something so profoundly primal, so deeply ingrained, yet so utterly lost to conscious memory. I’m talking about the earliest flickerings, the moments before language truly took hold, before the world solidified into a narrative I could understand. Specifically, I’ve been wrestling with the phantom sensation of being sixteen months old, a time when my mother was… well, she was the universe. And then, she wasn’t, not in the way I understood. It’s not a memory I can point to, not a scene I can replay. It’s more like a scent on the wind, a subtle shift in the atmosphere of my own being. A feeling of abrupt absence, a sudden quiet where there was once constant warmth and presence.
My mother, bless her heart, has always been a source of comfort and stability. But even she, when I’ve gently probed these nebulous feelings, has a vague recollection.
May 4, 2026
