|Isnt it most important, really, to remember that love, love is written by the losers?|
(i. one for the history books)
Im set to leave the hospital the day after next. It gives me the time to write some final words for you, dear Reader. You have been wonderfully attentive, and especially forgiving of my carelessness. As things are, there is only a bit more I have left to trouble you with.
The Doctor says that my case of amnesia is one for the history books. She is so resigned to this fact that she has begun writing everything down herself "for documentary purposes," she says. But I know that what she writes is nothing like what I have written. Her notes are filled with the most useless observations: "What did you eat today? How long did you sleep? How many fingers do you see?" While she asks me many questions, she never asks the important ones. If she would stop to ask me how I feel, I would tell her I am happy, and that is something worth putting down in the history books.
Im not sure why history has suddenly become so important to the Doctor. After all, the person who invented history died along with his name. It was a time ago, and since then the invention has been repeated by less and less successful people. All this for the simple fact that, like the Doctor, historians record the most useless of matters: rules and dates and names of mistakes. It is a peculiar way to remember things, and one that portrays an unfaithful picture of the world. After all, where is it recorded of the dreams in the lakes, the smell of the clouds, or the butterfly kisses? How could they forget the feelings of colors? Its strange that history was taught with the pen and not the eyes.
People say that history is written by the victors. Perhaps this fact is true. Just like the Doctor, though, they have missed the point entirely because no one learns from history anyway. Isnt it most important, really, to remember that love, love is written by the losers? When someone is sad, he writes a poem on his wall, or he may sing a song about his love, or he might tell his story at a bar. So it is always the broken-hearted that record the story of the world. After all, no historian especially not the Doctor wants to hear about happiness.
I warn you to beware of these sentimental confessions. Even when the heartbroken historian shares her pain, she does not admit all the happy times shes already had. She averts her eyes so that you cant see. But even if she speaks words of sorrow, it is because she is remembering all the times of joy. Really, how could you be truly sad if youve never known real happiness? So even if youre told only sad things in these histories, it does not mean that life is drowned in grief. All it means is that history most often records the sadder feelings.
The Doctor, as I have told you, is resigned to this kind of history. She troubles very much about a future that she thinks only she can predict, but over which she has no control. Only in the present is she blind. The Doctor pulls her stool close to my bed. I turn to face her and wait to catch her eye, to see things as she might. But the Doctor does not look at me. She has my file in her hand. She is busy writing everything down.
As you continue to hear of the vacant hearts or the unrequited stares, Reader, Im sure youll remember: how perverse is history! how incomplete are words! If you want to know the truth, youll have to start looking at people again, because the truth never leaves the participants. It remains there, jealously guarded, in their eyes.
I tell you this even though you are not reading a book of history. But these forgettings are perverse just the same. They are filled of words without weight or meaning. Then again, so are dreams and nightmares.