THE MAN WITHOUT YESTERDAY

Part 6-- A line on the ceiling

Thus, I decided to lie back down, concluding that my questions could wait until the morning or until the person who brought me here awakens. As I lay there, trying to find peace in the silence, my eyes were drawn to an unusual line on the ceiling. It read, 'Mike, you lost your memory.' This revelation took me completely by surprise. I propped myself up on my elbows for a closer look, reading it again but more slowly this time, as if I were a child learning to read. 'Mike, you lost your memory. You will find more about it in the first page of a notebook called Book Zero, which is on your bedside table.'

A shiver ran down my spine as the words on the ceiling sank in. 'Mike, you lost your memory.' The simplicity and directness of the statement clashed violently with the complexity of emotions it stirred within me. My heart raced, a mix of fear and disbelief coursing through my veins. How could I have lost my memory? And why was this message waiting for me here, of all places?

I slowly sat up, the room spinning slightly as the weight of the revelation pressed down on me. The notebook mentioned, Book Zero, suddenly felt like the only lifeline in a sea of forgotten memories. My hands trembled as I reached for it, the name 'Book Zero' echoing ominously in my mind. What secrets did it hold? What pieces of myself were scribbled on its pages?

Opening the notebook, I braced myself for what I might find. Would it be a diary? A set of instructions? Or perhaps a letter from a version of myself now lost to the fog of amnesia? The very idea that I had to rely on written words to piece together my own life story felt surreal, like something out of a novel. Yet here I was, about to turn the first page.

My name is Mike Tike, and I live in a world that is constantly veiled in fog—a disorder known as amnesia has enveloped my mind. Every morning, as the sun rises above the horizon and light filters through my window, I am reborn into a mystery. I find myself questioning fundamental questions about our existence, such as, "Who am I?" Where am I now? What did I do yesterday, last week, last year, or even in the past decade?

This never-ending loop of waking up with a clean slate and erased memories is similar to a newborn's innocence, but not quite. It's a strange existence; every day is a blank slate, but I grasp onto remnants of a world I once knew well. Objects surrounding me—mundane yet necessary artefacts of modern life—remain within reach. I recognise televisions, books, laptops, and phones. Their names and purposes are not lost on me, as if these fragments of knowledge are beacons in my hazy world.

The list might go on indefinitely—cars, lamps, glasses—each object a piece of the world's puzzle, each name a word in the language I still know fluently. However, these are only islands of certainty in an ocean of unknowns. I traverse my days on this partial map, with a curious blend of familiarity and discovery colouring every interaction.

Living with amnesia is an exercise in constant adaptation. I've learned to anchor myself with routines and notes, reminders of tasks and appointments, each note a lifeline thrown into the previous day's void. My home is a museum of sticky notes and journals, each entry a testament to a day lived but not remembered.

Despite the challenges, there's a peculiar freedom in forgetting. Each day offers a clean slate, an opportunity to experience the world with fresh eyes. Yet, the joy of discovery is often tempered by the longing for continuity, for a sense of self that extends beyond the present moment.

My journey is one of perpetual rediscovery, a quest not just to remember who I was, but to understand who I am each new day. As Mike Tike, I navigate the waters of forgetfulness, holding onto the hope that one day, the fog will lift, revealing the landscape of my memory in all its vivid detail.

I'm not dealing with my condition alone. I have friends who help me, and I've written down their names, what they do, and how they assist me in the pages that follow in this notebook, which I call Book Zero. It serves as a directory of the people who support me through this challenging time.

Besides Book Zero, I have other notebooks where I keep track of my daily life and my dreams. In the study room, you'll find the blue notebooks. These contain records of my day-to-day activities: details about where I went, who I talked to, and what I did. They help me remember the specifics of my daily life that would otherwise be lost.

The red notebooks are where I write down my dreams, on the occasions I remember them. I'm not entirely sure why I keep these records, but perhaps it's because these dreams are some of the few things that stay with me upon waking. It seems to make sense to record something that feels inherently mine, even if I don't understand its significance.

Recording my life in these notebooks—blue for the everyday, red for the dreams—gives me a way to piece together my existence. The blue ones help me keep track of my current life, providing a narrative that's easy to follow. The red ones offer a peek into my subconscious, potentially holding clues to memories that my conscious mind can't access.

With the help of my friends, as noted in Book Zero, and the habit of writing down everything significant in these notebooks, I manage to navigate through the days. These notebooks are crucial; they are the tools I use to reconstruct my identity and maintain a sense of continuity in my life.