The Beginning of Nothing

Okay, so maybe not exactly nothing. But nothing terribly significant.
You’ll think I’m talking rubbish when I tell you that I remember being born. If I weren’t me, *I* would think I’m talking rubbish. But I do.
I remember being born. Not in great detail – mostly flashes of black and red, like when you look at a bright light through your eyelids and all you see is that warm, glowing, orangey red colour, and the recall of the short but incredibly tight, claustrophobic passage through the birth canal.

I don’t remember what happened immediately after or what I felt or seeing anyone’s face or anything like that. But I’ve been told often enough that I was several weeks overdue but tiny because my mother’s blood type and mine were incompatible and that I needed several blood transfusions at birth in order to live. Obviously, I lived.

You can expect most of what I tell you here to follow this kind of pattern. I’ll tell a story about some point or incident in my life and it may sound vaguely like something out of the ordinary at first. There’ll be some small but ultimately unimportant detail that just barely distinguishes my story from every other story almost exactly like it and then we’ll inevitably get back to now, where I’m writing about it and have nothing more to offer than that.

This is the theme of my life. Feel free to click off to someplace else now.

 

 

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