It is said that memories are what make us who we are. Personal, private, intimate— small fragments of the life that we have lived. Memories are precious gems to remind us of times when we were happy, or they are weights that burden and callous our souls. Without our memories we are nothing but a living shell that is empty, with no past or origin, existing simply to exist.
That is what I am.
I have no recollections of my past that are my own, knowing only what is recounted to me. Within my mind's eye are no faces of any beings that I recognise as mother or father. There are no friends or siblings whose names I recall fondly, nor are there any happy memories, or moments that have shaped and moulded the entity that I am.
Each night I sleep as though it is my last. Each day I have lived feeling long and ageing, filled with the brief memories I have collected within that too-short span of existence. I try to hold on to those fragments of time captured in my consciousness— to engrave the faces and names I have seen upon the blank slate that is my memory— knowing deep down that it is all in vain.
When I wake I will be someone else, reborn with the dawn, and filled with nothing but the understanding of who I am.
I am their Queen.
I am their living God.