The Machine

The first thing to erode was the foundation to a handful of beautiful memories. My ability to remember was tragically stunned, like a flower trying to bloom in the throes of winter. Bits and pieces of memories would drift in my mind like snowflakes to a storm, then melt as quickly as they visited. I am devastatingly simple. The halls of my mind are painted white, with a recourse of organization. When the foundation started to diminish, the wallpaper started to detach and yellowed at the edges. The floors were stained with disbelief. Why was this happening to me?

One night, as sleep started to call to me, I heard this peculiar chugging noise-- it sounded like the tired clank of an old car trying to start. That's when I caught a glimpse of the culprit. It's spider-like legs just rounded the corner and it's movement was eerily mechanical. It scared me so deeply that I opened the door to the dreamworld, and hid there.

As I tried to go about my daily life, I could still hear the faint hum of the perpetrator moving around like a fiend—it's fuel being moments of my life most precious to me. Day after day, it grew stronger as my memory deteriorated.

Finally, I decided to be brave and wait for it near the best memory I had left. It's faint trudging chug neared closer (as I knew it would come.) As it approached, it reached out with one of it's many thin, gangly mechanical legs for the last memory I tried to protect. The machine was devastatingly simple-- a medium sized engine rested at it's core and powered it.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked with vehemence.

I felt it looking at me and swear I heard it sigh as it ceased it's pursuit. I neared closer to study it, but did so slowly. It's surface was shiny and new, but it's demeanor was tired. As my face reflected in it's sad eyes, realization washed over me. The machine was a product of my mind, I made it. It wasn't destroying memories to be malicious, it was doing so out of kindness. How could I be depressed if I couldn't remember what happiness was and that I no longer had it? I traced the outline of my last remaining memory and listened to the echoes of it's joy before surrendering it without hesitating and watched the machine eat away.