tsvetoslav shalev

A property of cognitive networks in which damage to a portion of the network produces relatively little damage to overall performance because performance is distributed across the units in the network and no one unit is solely responsible for any aspect of processing. It is a property of the neural network model of cognition and of models derived from the parallel distributed processing hypothesis.

– APA Dictionary of Psychology

The mood of this writ, distilled.

Memories are not mere reference points about events long past. No, they are both the building blocks and the glue that holds the sense of self together. Many of our cells die and are recreated time and again in the space of 24 hours, but provided our brain circuitry remains mostly intact, we should be able to tell a difference once experienced. Forgetfulness certainly has its benefits. For one, we can sleep off hours of unpleasant experiences or altogether omit entire tasks. Last I checked, forgetting isn’t a criminal offence, either, at least not outside the context of negligence. There is little we can do, aside from looking after our own health, should the delicate mechanisms that support the functions of remembering and recollection become damaged. I hold on to memories, an obsessed lepidopterist, mounted on pins like so many moths or even the occasional butterfly, cognizant of their existence but seldom examining them in detail. Yes, forgetting troubles me deeply, but then there’s also the problem of recollection, a highly inaccurate process in terms of getting the facts right, compounded additionally by my affinity for artistic embellishment. I wish I could tap into my memories, presented in a raw format. Some are precious enough to want to relive, but that is how I remember them, after all.

I know you want me to change, I’m trying, but sometimes… you’re killing my desire to do so.

A fragment from an email I’d received back in 2010. I stumbled upon it while tidying up one of my mailboxes. She had a point. I was and still am a killjoy, a Buzz Killington in the flesh, permanently grounded, and not just because of my strained relationship with gravity. Over the years, I’d supplemented the poverty of my experiences with words. I’d spent countless hours absorbing other people’s observations, their thoughts, and emotions made tangible thanks to writing, but also audio and video recordings. In truth, I felt miserable, deeply tormented by my constant failures at striking a deal with normality. Living vicariously through the actions of other people, especially the ones who struck me as intellectually honest and transparent insofar as propriety allows for it, was my one saving grace. My 20s were marked by a mental battle on many fronts, with a great deal of collateral damage; she was both a subject of adoration and an innocent bystander in an ongoing personal struggle for coherence.

Sometimes, I get the feeling that I am not enough for you… you seem bored as if it’s killing you to be with me.

Her words, an art-deco installation of mirrors, reflect back an image of une symphonie pathétique. Not a trace of compassion, humility, or consideration. Just the demand for another person’s unconditional surrender unto me. For what it’s worth, pride isn’t the main driving force behind the totality of who I am as a person, but blind self-assuredness. I wanted to be trusted, more so than being loved. But how could I’ve possibly trusted someone who merely offered their warmth? The irony is so palpable, that you can treat anaemia with it.

Believe me, I want to talk, sometimes I want to so badly, but then I look around and I am all alone and it stays that way.

This past Wednesday, high on caffeine and foolish sentimentality, I did the only thing that came to mind. I took a hammer to the silence that had settled like a thick layer of permafrost after years of obstinate silence. Voices rushed through my mind in a desperate attempt to externalize, to escape the blackened depths of my psyche, but I exercised restraint, thus resulting in a short email sent to the only address of hers I had on record, expecting little in return. She replied within hours; her first reaction was that of mild shock (literary). Emboldened by the reply, I followed up early the next day but haven’t received anything back. Am I causing harm again? Are these timid attempts at reconciliation with the past actually picking at old wounds needlessly?

Decades ago, when challenged before his classmates about his plans for the future, a chubby twelve-year-old replied that he aspired to be a good person someday. In this vague task, I erred more times than I could possibly remember, but that doesn’t deter me from trying. Correct me if I am wrong.