Amnesia & Time Travels
Guernica
Amnesiac Adventuress
My memories are scattered. Sometimes they show up as sharp fragments, bloody and jagged, lost pieces of time. Other times, the past grows hazy and slips away when I try to hold on. My mind feels like an abstract painting, and I have no idea who created it.
I walk the uneven streets of Bilbao, alone, my feet pressed into stiff Tivas, the straps biting at my skin.
Pebbles shift under each step, small reminders of all the scattered pieces I carry. Every movement tugs at something old.
The air is dirty, smoky, heavy in my lungs. I see fragments everywhere—bits of things, bits of people. Blood on hot metal. Even the people look raw, as if they’re made of broken pieces. The world outside blurs into the world inside me. Both are scattered, both unfinished.
I am my own small world—love, grief, memories. Words and air. Snowflakes drifting, melting before I can catch them.
At first, it’s a party. People bring food, flowers, and booze. They clean, cook, and ask, wanting to know. Books arrive; walks are suggested. They plan the memorial, stay by your side. Like a birthday party, a memorial celebrates a life.
After the memorial, everything changes. Friends drift back to their own lives, visiting only on weekends. The phone grows quiet. Walks shrink, then stop. No more casseroles, no more foil-wrapped dishes in the fridge. Flowers wilt, water stains the counter. Like snowflakes, like people, flowers disappear.
How are you doing? People still ask, voices soft but quicker now. Their words turn back to errands, to dinners, to the living. I stand just outside, watching, unchanged.
But my life isn’t there to return to. It’s gone. It won’t come back.
Who do I cook for now? Who stands beside me at the stove? How do I comfort anyone? The world feels empty. At first, only shock. Now the phone is cold, silent. No more silly messages. I feel everything, then nothing, as I get used to the empty space. Routine shapes me. Outside, life keeps moving.
Then, somehow, things start to look normal. The world moves on, and I watch it. Something unsettled hangs in the air. I cry less. I laugh, but the hollow stays. I listen to a podcast, eat breakfast, try to fill the emptiness with small routines. This new normal never fits what’s inside me.
Life keeps going, and so do I. I carry loss and whatever strength I have, step by step.
Shock and disbelief have faded away. I’m not numb now. The wounds are hidden, but pain sits underneath. My mind holds onto blurry, aching pictures.
Memories. Trees. Babies. So much beautiful food. Love. Hate. Sadness.
So many memories are fading, breaking down like old photographs from another century. The pictures I used to see so clearly now blur together, shifting from sharp to washed-out black and white.
I know I’ll remember it all again. Each time I reach for a memory, it changes shape. Nothing stays the same. Every visit shifts the scene—old pictures replaced, blurred by new feelings.
My friends go out to dinner. They drive to the lake for the day. They eat at home, or at someone else’s table. They slip back into their own worlds. Mine is just too fucking quiet.
I stand still in front of Guernica. My mind keeps circling back to Bilbao, again and again. Maybe I’m trying to find the memories I lost.
Now, when I look at photos of the Guggenheim Bilbao—whether in my mind or from the times I was really there—I see the building’s soft, flowing lines. I can almost feel the curve, cool and smooth under my hand.
The tragedies of war never fully disappear.
