All is Lost (J.C. Chandor, 2013)
Looking back on everything that's happened in my life is like looking over my shoulder to see a vista of spinning coins. Some of those coins spin brighter and faster than others. Some of those memories are simply more vivid. So what is it that makes the difference?
Now this is just me speculating on a hypothesis, but it seems that the memories which are strongest, the events which are brightest, are those that involved less thought and more reaction. Accidents are a good example. Here's one for you, I remember being intrigued as to how the spring in the front door of a house I lived in long ago used to work. I was waiting for someone and pushing the door as far open as it could go, and then releasing it, keeping my eyes on the spring. The spring seemed huge, very thick, and it worked to push the door closed with some strength. Greater strength than I was anticipating, and it swung into me, knocking me to the cobblestone street outside. I hit the ground hard, and then the lady I was waiting for came rushing out. She helped me back inside the house and left me in the bathroom as she went to get a bandage. I stood there in front of the bathroom mirror and put my right hand to the back of my head, the source of the pain. I winced as my hand hit the wound, and then I brought my hand back round to look at it. The entire surface of my hand was wet with dark red blood.
I was two when that happened. And yet I remember it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. I remember it more sharply than what I did last week. And the same is true with any moment in which cognitive reasoning gave way to reptilian reaction and response.
And what interests me is how these memories are made of pictures, and not words. We all have far more memories of our young life than we realise. So the story goes: your original set of memories are stored without any language, because you haven't learned to use that yet. You have a filing system that works without it, and you're able to access all of these memories as and when you choose. However, as time goes by you learn how to speak. And suddenly your filing system becomes antiquated, and all of those memories are lost. They're still there, but the filing system is incomprehensible to you now. Mostly.
Eventually I'll get old, if all goes well, and I'll do more things, and I'll acquire more memories. And by the time I get to the end of everything I'll have probably acquired quite a few regrets. I don't see any way around that. I may have mentioned this before, but in an interview to promote the film version of Naked Lunch a Journalist asked William Burroughs if he had any regrets. The guy was probably hinting at a particularly famous event that he wanted the Writer to talk about, but instead Burroughs replied that rarely a day went by when he didn't regret something; a turn of phrase, a gesture... but to consider all of these over a lifetime! That was too much.
I imagine that at the end of it all I'll be a reservoir of penitence. And what's more, I'll be irrelevant. I'll find myself in a world that I don't really understand. One where my skill set doesn't really benefit me in the end, no matter how much it helped in the past. It'll be a world for other people by then. And at the final hour I'll carve words into stone, and those words may be:
"I’m sorry. I know that means little at this point. But I am. I tried. I think you could all agree that I tried. I fought to the end. I am not sure what that is worth, but know that I did. I have always hoped for more for you all. I will miss you. I’m sorry."