When I was I think 18, the smell of cooked chicken at a treatment center group dinner sent me into a severe episode of what would later be called dissociation. Basically my panicked crying melted into a nothingness so absolute that I have no memory of the period I was crouched in the dark. I don't know how long I was there, but when I came to, I had been born right there outside the dining room, and, led by a staff member, I went back into the room like a child on their first day of kindergarten.
This is what I remember: I was fascinated, wholly and completely, by the ease with which were able to see each other through a distance––space is clear––to hear and know each other, to process language. I was laughing and delight at the fact that we have names, each of us, and I remember in particular thinking of birds, and of spiders, and how the birds eat the spiders. Yes, I thought, this is the way it is: this is what we have here, and isn't it absolutely magic? Is it not the luckiest of all worlds? Leibniz ass moment. Distance is clear, and I can see you––you recognize me––and that’s memory.
As the fundamentals of existence were flooding back to me I'm sure it was a bit of a nuisance to the others there, but you can have nuisances. You can have card stock in practically any color. You can settle down and have a nap after you've been crying. You can admire the beautiful works of hideous men. You can practice something you're not predisposed to until you're good at it. You can walk backwards or like a bear. You can make exceptions and caveats like “what if someone couldn't walk backwards or like a bear,” and that's okay, because making caveats provides a pleasantly indignant feeling and you're allowed to make yourself feel pleased in a righteous fashion. You can gather small objects and glue them together into a larger object. You can seek out green pastures and you can lie down in them. You can dream something you'll never fully interpret.