Andy Freddy’s review published on Letterboxd:
I believed I saw a ghost when I was around ten. It was poking its head around my bedroom door, staring intensely at me in early morning darkness. At least it’s how I remember it now. I don’t really trust that memory anymore. If I tell it again, it’ll be too clean, too removed from who I was at that time.
I fully believed in ghosts when I was ten. Now, not really. I mean, I believe there are some unexplained scientific phenomena, but the pissed apparition I supposedly saw feels less a memory and more a neat story. A story that doesn’t align with my current scientific belief. The question is, when does a memory become so distant it’s a story?
Recent study shows that when we remember something, we actually remember the last time we remembered it, not just the actual event in itself but also the way it was processed and stored along with how we felt at that time. A memory is like a photo and every time we touch it, the color grade changes, and in turn, changes us. It shows age not necessarily over time but in the amount of times it’s remembered. We can remember something that happened many years ago as if it happened yesterday in that Proustian manner, yet we can get something that happened recently entirely wrong. The same study shows that the more we think about that specific memory the less accurate it becomes.
It’s a catch 22. If we want to keep a memory intact, it’s best we don’t think of it too often. But isn’t memory supposed to make us who we are? It’s like two existing truths in conflict with one another. But I read recently that the human brain doesn’t distinguish between conflicting truths; this probably explains why I believe both TCM and TCM: TNG are masterpieces.
While using brain-implant technology, does Tasya Vos lose a part of herself as she forgets elements of her childhood memory? Do I lose a part of myself when I forget elements of that paranormal experience? I dunno, but that implies we’re always the same person on all planes of time, where only loss of memory chips away at who we are. I’m not the same person I was when I was ten, right? Memory changes because we do, and not necessarily the other way round.
We are all possessors, aren’t we?