THE MAN WITHOUT YESTERDAY

Part 7-- Blue and Red notebooks

Closing the cover of Book Zero, I stood up, feeling a mix of resolve and uncertainty. The weight of the notebook in my hand was a tangible reminder of the intangible memories it held. I needed a moment, a change of scenery to process the flood of information I had just absorbed. So, I made my way to the study room, seeking both the comfort of familiarity and the hope stored in my other notebooks.

The study room was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where order and chaos coexisted in harmony. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books whose titles I recognized but whose contents felt foreign. The blue and red notebooks were neatly arranged on a wooden desk that sat under a window, bathing the room in soft, natural light. The desk was cluttered with pens, papers, and other tokens of a life being diligently documented, each item a tool in my quest to piece together my existence.

As I sit in the quiet of my study room, surrounded by the blue and red notebooks that catalogue my existence, a profound sense of surrealism washes over me. Each page I turn, each word I read, feels like peering through a window into someone else's life, yet the person in those notes is me. It's a jarring realisation, knowing that these written words are the only bridge to my past and the only anchor to my identity.

Going through the blue notebooks, I'm struck by the detail in the daily entries—the people I've met, the places I've been, the conversations I've had. It's like piecing together a puzzle without knowing what the final picture is supposed to look like. I'm grateful for these records; without them, I'd be utterly lost, adrift in a sea of anonymity. Yet, there's a pang of sadness too. These experiences, rich and vibrant on paper, evoke no emotional response in me. They're just facts, devoid of the memories that should accompany them.

Then, there are the red notebooks, filled with fragments of dreams. Reading them, I'm plunged into a world of vivid imagery and intense emotions that seem more real than the waking life I can't remember. It's bewildering to think that these dreams might be the closest I get to experiencing memories, a bizarre reversal of reality and imagination.