Scrap of Paper

I found a handwritten note to myself (at least I think it’s to me).  Not all of it makes sense, but I found it interesting and it’s a peek inside K’s mind.  I thought I’d share it with you here.  It goes like this:

I DON’T KNOW WHO I AM.  I CAN’T REMEMBER WHAT MY NAME IS.  I CAN’T FUCKING REMEMBER THINGS. RIGHT NOW. WHO THE HELL IS THIS PERSON TALKING TO (my husband), EXPLAINING TO HIM THAT WE CAN’T REMEMBER WHO WE ARE. WHO AM I? FOR JUST A MOMENT, I WAS THE ONE WHO DOES MATH.  IT WAS IN THE CAR.

(I typed that all in caps because that’s how it was written) That’s the end of the note, which I found on a scrap of paper stuck in between the pages of my journal.  I don’t know when it was written and I don’t remember writing it.

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