Dear Reader,

When we live our daily lives — catching trains, attending classes, sleeping late on weekends — rarely do we stop and ask:

“Who am I?”

But there was a time, in all of our childhoods, when we would have tugged at our parents’ hands and asked that question. As we grow older, this identity question fades in our lives, along with our favorite TV shows or cherished toys. Even if we move schools, live in different cities, meet new friends, and bid farewell to old ones — you are still “you.” Instead of searching for what is and isn’t part of “me” — I might find who I am by considering the stories of all the different things that came into my life, whether long-lasting or fleeting. 

And I’m sure that we’ve had the same nightmares when it seems the universe might abandon us. We ask:

“If I am gone by tomorrow, how long would it take you to forget me?”

Each of us would respond to these two questions differently, because we each have a unique identity. Like most things in this world that are created by humans, identities too can fade with time.

And being forgotten is finite and certain.     

It’s hard to pinpoint a beginning, easy to place an end. At which moment in space-time did all these atoms become me? I do not know.

I do know that, regardless of the number of commas, or dashes — heck — even colons, no amount of exotic and vociferously beleaguering words can delay this dreadful full-stop.

Just like that

— as finite and estimable as the end of a line.

If you’re still reading this, then this is my certain proof that you have not forgotten me yet. If it took you two minutes to get here, then it must take longer than that before I go from memorable to immemorial.

I put down my cat to type with both hands. He grumbles at me with indignation. I am certain that cats are a part of the universe. If Coco can remember to pee on my shirt after I return from four weeks of hiking, then it must take longer than that before I am truly gone.

A hiss interrupts me.

Coco reminds me that he is one of 5,000 registered cats in the city of Melbourne. And if Coco gossips with five other cats in a night of meandering, it would take a mere six days before every Melburnian cat knew my name. As long as a handful of cats find me interesting, I could consider myself a myth passed from ear to ear — carried through alleys and over rooftops, whispered at litter boxes and under garden benches. Years after I’m gone, a street cat may stop to peer at my headstone.

My continued existence might be measured as the sum of living beings that I’ve encountered.

On hot summer nights, I leave the window open, turn my lamp to the wall, and dial up the light intensity. My visitors are moths and nocturnal beetles; spiderwebs begin to appear at the foot of my bed.

Dusty wings and whirring beetle shells. My childhood self once made a pact with them. They were ambassadors from the moon, speaking with clicks and chirrups, carrying the secrets I’d whisper to them all the way up to distant stars. The lifespan of mayflies averages shorter than a day. If I am gone tomorrow, it would be a historical moment for the mayfly population in my garden — the day Vincent forgot to turn on the moon.

Sometimes, my life feels scripted. Sometimes, I wish for a universal story. I know for certain that good writers rarely forget their characters.           

“I am alone,” said Vincent aloud, since there was no one to hear him.

I talk to myself in the mirror — 

⟦VINCENT⟧: Alright, here we go again. You ready?

⟦MIRROR⟧ . . . 

The lack of response is telling. To further the proof: when I write, I close my eyes and try to listen — I let the character guide me through the lines. There are moments of stillness when the universe seems to lean in and listen, too. When I sleep — the perspective shifts. When I leave the room — I exit a scene. When I disappear from the narrative altogether — it will only be a matter of time before I re-emerge somewhere down the page — as foreshadowing maybe, or a flashback. 

I would be forgotten within a few generations of cats, a few eons in mayfly-years, a few chapters on the page. 

Our identities are fluid. Who we are, what we’re made from — they shimmer and change like wind through the leaves. Who am I? My answer changes from moment to moment. It’s the things that keep changing in my life — the sum total of all the cats and mayflies and books I’ve read — that form my identity. 

But for the second, heavier question. How long will it take before I’m forgotten? The answer is as finite and certain as the end of a line.

I will disappear at the end of this letter. This letter will become all you have. From the first word to the last — about 800 of them — that is how long it will take for you to forget me. 

Love,
Vincent