I have forgotten them all.
I remember them and I have forgotten them.
Everything is done without them.
The clocks run on time, the grass gets cut once it becomes too long, flowers are watered in their vases and replaced when they wither – but I am the only one here.
There is noone to do all these things, yet they are simply done. How these events take place, I have never cared to wonder.
It is a simple run of my daily life. It’s only normal for me.
Every morning, I leave my house. There is noone to enter while I am away, so I don’t lock the door. The door is broken and will swing ajar naturally if I dont slide the pot plant – sitting by the door – in the way to stop it.
Everything is routine. I leave in the morning; not bothering to take notice of any incoming mail I may recieve, as there is noone to send some anyway.
I walk the still streets under the sun which neither keeps me warm nor burns my skin. The wind never blows or whistles itself aggainst buildings or through trees.
The roads are vast. Nothing but the lone light poles line the empty roadsides.
Occasionally I can hear a car in the distance, but I have never come to see a single one.
I still wait for the green man in the traffic light to appear and check to see that the road is clear before I cross.
When I reach the trainstation I stand near the benches rather than sit. Only one train will ever arrive or pass through this station. That is my ride.
Moving outbound each day, the empty train -with no driver or station master to stand watch as it pulls in or departs – welcomes me with blissful silence. Only the powered movement of the train, gliding along its tracks, can be heard.
What do I do each day? Where have I gone? What do I eat? I can never quite recall anything.
I travel some distance – far away from home – and return in the evening; completely unaware of how I spent my day. But this is only normal, which happens everyday.
On arrival back at the station, I am greeted by the dimly lit platform. Empty as always.
The train departs and carries its sound far away until it has become so quiet I can no longer hear it. No matter how much longer there I wait, there wont be another train coming to the station until tomorrow: when once again, I leave on my journey.
I can hear my footsteps patting against the concrete floor of the platform, but not their echos which should have rebounded from the walls bridging around me.
A short flight of stairs and a couple of steps, and I am away from the station; I am on the walk back to my house.
The streets – now blanketed in darkness – are filled with the noises of the night-time creatures, creeping through the trees. But I will never catch a glimpse of any of them. I know this already without trying.
I return to my house. The door is always locked when I get home. I always have the keys and let myself back inside, where everything ends for the day.
Here, I prepare myself for the tomorrow which will come once the sun rises, and I again, leave my house on the long journey; that consumes my entire day. Knowing what I have done all day, but not remembering a single drop of it.
The same loop repeats itself over and over like a broken CD.
The world is lonely.
How long has it been, since I have forgotten people?
When did I forget?
The world simply continues to rotate on its axis regardless of what has become of them, oblivious to the fact that I am the only one who remains in this miracle that I call the “normal”.
I know they had existed to me, at one stage in time; lived with me and interacted with me, sharing the world with me.
Now, I can’t even imagine it clearly.
Crouds of people, gathering around buildings and streets… the quiet roar of thousands of people murmuring among one another.
Everything feels unfamiliar just to think about it. It is as if it had all never happened before, yet I simply know that it did.
It is this feeling of constant uneasiness of being alone, that is what’s keeping me calm.
The world of mine which makes sense to nobody but myself.
Because this is my world.
