This is probably the oldest tale in the collection, written nearly 40 years ago. I found it while hunting for some papers, re-read it, and thought - "Hey, that is not half bad." So here it is, with a bit of grammar correction. And no - I do not have an eidetic memory. But I know someone who does.
Life has been compared to many things. In bad songs, bad films and simplex philosophy, you get a thousand answers to the question "What is life."
All of them wrong, some badly. I know.
I have seen.
I have always had a perfect memory. Not just good, but perfect. Oh, it sounds great, but have you ever stopped to really think about it?
Do you have a favorite book? I don't. I hear about the joy of re-reading a book to find new nuances, but I can't do that. One read, and it is there in my mind forever.
A favorite song? Let me listen to it once, and I can play it back note perfect on any instrument you care to name.
A beloved memory? I remember it all - not just the ambiance and the emotions, but the transient pain in the shoulder, the smell of burnt food, the waiter farting as he walks past, the bit of spinach in her teeth as she says yes.
So not the gift that 99.99% of the race thinks it is. It is bearable, normally. No one really dwells on memories unless they are intense. They are there, waiting for recall, but harmless. Mostly.
Oh - it pays well. I got a job straight out of university working for the world's biggest library. You'll not have heard of it, it is under 19 layers of security and a direct presidential order.. In a week, I knew where every one of the 3 million books, papers and manuscripts in the library were. In 4 years, I knew the contents of every one. Yes - I am a speed reader too - one second per page is plenty for me, and I had nothing but time. I was not just the chief research librarian. To all intents and purposes, I was the library. My pay rocketed. National security was at stake, after all, and no one looks closely at defence budgets. Not even now.
By 27, I was technically a multimillionaire. Money is just another tool, but useful in large amounts. I started a library of my own. In my mind. One of a kind books, odd research papers, a week in the vaults of the Vatican. That cost a pretty penny - let no one say that the Catholic Church doesn't know how to turn a profit. I do not own these books, but can write them out if necessary. For some of them, I hope it will never be necessary. My personal library is in my mind. It is now some 8 million volumes and research papers.
All confounded and made useless by a four year old.
I have a family. I don't see them often, but they are there. I pretty much ignored them all once I left home, until my sister had a kid. Children are amazing. Totally open to the universe and all it offers. I got into the habit of dropping in on sis and her kid once a week or so. Maybe doing the park thing, or horse riding, or going to the circus. The joy of seeing a person meeting an experiance for the first time is incredible. Even though they inevitably forget. Almost makes me want to go through the monotony of pairing off again, simply to have one of my own.
Little Jose was bright. Reading at two, and holding his own in a conversation at three. A good kid, though without my curse. I found an unexpected talent - explaining things in a way a child could understand. We had fun. To me - he was what I did not and never would have. To him, I was a playmate - that could explain everything. Of course we played! Did you not know that play is the most important part of a child's developmental cycle until the age of 10? The exercise of the imagination lets them deal with anything.
Almost.
When Jose was four, the cat died. Nothing much at all, in the scheme of things. But to a child, a tragedy worse than Dresden. My sister was heavily pregnant. Her husband was out of town. So she phoned me at work, something I detest, to ask me to come over and deal with the body. What could I do? I went. Not for her. Not for the damn cat, that always brought me out in hives. But for Jose.
We buried the cat under the rose bush in the garden. I wanted to bury it by the apple tree. but Jose had a problem with eating apples that might have a bit of Fluffy in them. Fair enough - kids have weird ideas. Did it properly, small coffin, said a prayer, sang a hymn - the works.
Then we sat and had a small picnic. The association of food, after death, with life going on is older than our species. And Jose asked those five cursed words.
"Tio, why do we live?"
I opened my mouth - and shut it. Why do we live? What is the point? I didn't know. Couldn't answer.
The question bugged me for months. I read - voraciously. Absently responded to questions asked at work, leading to 17 scientific breakthroughs and 12 banned or restricted new technologies. This was no longer a child's question, but a gap in my knowledge. That can not be permitted.
Then I died.
It was an accident of course. With my memory and associated situational awareness, it would have to be. A one in a million occurrance - a lightning strike as I stepped out of the Library. That is when I saw.
An infinite room. Filled with wheels. Each wheel split into thirds, each labelled "Today." A person running in each wheel.
The past that you run from - the future that you run toward. They are the same. Does time exist if no one is there to measure it? Or does intelligence make the universe run.
I no longer care. Pass me another drink - I would rather forget.
But I can't.
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