Transience

Transience

Time constantly flows, melding with space to form a mesh of dimension upon dimension that coalesce to form a continuum. Memories are formed by this continuum because of the interactions of oneself when one comes into being and others when they come into being. Damages to any neuroanatomy of memory will result in certain incapability of one's memory.

The Time-Keeper ran. After reaching a certain spatial distance in a certain temporal dimension, he placed down a crude mechanism with a two-pronged base and a circular head with a prismatic shard embedded in the centre. 

A glowing cyan thread spreads to the previous mechanism - for this story's sake lets call it a marker, since that is its purpose anyway - only to disappear again, lost in the sea of omni-withoutaname. It is not even the void but the void before void. Giving it a name grants it existence when it is in fact, the absence of existence and nothingness. For saying that its the absence of one means to acknowledge the other, so this void before the void is without a name and is the neither of both.

Each marker has a mathematical algorithm dictates by the time-keeper. The marker here is not merely points in space consisting of l x b  x h but l x b x h x t. It is not merely keyframes after keyframes in an .swf file. It is frames within a keyframe with complex sets of animation all compressed into a point of singularity yet somehow, dimensions exist. 

It encompasses events. Events with such explicit details. My sister's wedding under BLK 682, Jalan Anak Kambing, Postal code 369682. Gold satin covered the eight pillars adorned by faux bouquets of ylang ylang. The bridal dais -  a plush, gilded divan with two golden vases filled with more ylang ylang - oversee the guests in their baju kurung finest. 

Cik Sareka in her tight fitting, almost transparent kebaya and pin up scented jasmine on her head, much to the dismay of other makciks in their more conservative garb. Sassy cousin Salimat and his progressive take on Malay couture; a jacquard brocade mandarin-collar vest over a baju kurung, gilded sarong, and a pair of sandals.

I heard the many gossips under the table; the tale of my cousin's pregnancy out of wedlock. An aunt expressing her frustration regarding monetary issues with an older uncle. Rumours about Cik Sareka and the two susoks in her cheeks.

The underpaid DJ half-heartedly requesting people to come on stage. A greying middle-aged man comes up to much applause. Those very hands cupped their ears when he started to warble. Two gatecrashers helping themselves to the food, oblivious to the glares from my family members. Grandma Nadiah could not take it any longer and shooed them away with her batik shawl with dramatic arm movements that made her look like a giant, shrivelled moth.

This is only one marker of the many markers. And each markers have sub-markers to demarcate sub-events tied to each episodes.

The earliest markers bear severe wear and tear; a testament to erosion due to the continuity of time. Its shards nothing more than mere blimps in the sea of omni-withoutaname. Though some older markers bear brighter glows in multitude of colours, indicating strong emotional stimuli.

One relatively two light years away from the current marker shines pale blue, a disappointment at the age of 7 on 4th January 1999, 1000 hrs, when not being able to score full marks for my first spelling test much to the chagrin of my parents. This results in me being grounded for the whole week.

The bright red one slightly closer around the length of a milky way away from the current marker (the current marker now is a few markers away from the former current marker because as we speak, the ever-diligent Time-Keeper has already placed more markers because events are taking place as we speak) burning brighter that Betelgeuse holds the event when I chipped my teeth from a tussle with a secondary school mate as he deliberately slapped my bottle from the table down to the ground. 

My bottle, being of cheap, low-grade plastic, was dented. Being more afraid of my mother's wrath if she saw the dented bottle than a trip to the principal's office, I punched his nose. This lead to another marker throbbing in purple - public caning.

It will take a while for the markers to take its root, a gruelling encoding process consolidating data that can take years. Some markers are identical; the closer these markers are to each other, the faster the encoding.

Usually the markers are very much alive, due to constant exercising of the mind to recall events and semantics. But mine have come down to a standstill like the surface of the moon. Without an atmosphere, forever eroding. It frustrate me so much as to how my markers can't seem to activate recall. And the incessant humming in my vain attempts at recalling usually result in frustration and shortness of breath. The occasional dizziness. The prismatic shards still shine. My markers have atrophied; long gone are their glory days of recall at 13ms.

Another dimension appeared. A toxic manifestation of sorrow and troubled waters. Resulting in a gravitational tension that makes the markers off-balance. The threads linking the markers are pulled. Like an iron ball in the middle of a trampoline. The markers are at the edge, and whatever memories stored inside flowed to the middle in a clockwise spiral. Down to the sea of omni-withoutaname. 

Woe to the Time-Keeper who experience such peril. For one slip, just one wrong footing, is enough for him to tumble down the rabbit hole. 

Drained. Oblivion. Blanks.