The Hippocampus Has Left the Building
Some mornings, I swear my hippocampus packs a small suitcase, leaves a note on the counter, and slips out the back door before I’m even awake. No warning. No forwarding address. Just gone.
And there I am, standing in the kitchen, trying to remember why I walked in there in the first place or how my glasses got on top of my head.
People tell me it’s age. I tell them it’s abandonment.
But here’s the strange part: even when memory wanders off, the feeling of the memory stays behind. The emotional imprint. The echo. The sense that something important happened — even if the details are now floating somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico or America, whatever.
It’s a reminder that the brain is not a filing cabinet. It’s a living, shifting landscape. And sometimes the tour guide goes missing.
Memory Isn’t Lost — It Just Hides in the Corners
The hippocampus is supposed to help us store and retrieve memories. Lately, mine seems to prefer the “store” part and forgets the “retrieve” entirely. It’s like a librarian who keeps shelving books but refuses to tell you where anything is, especially at my age.
But here’s the thing: Even when the facts slip, the meaning stays.
I may not remember the exact date something happened, but I remember how it felt. I remember the weight of it. The lesson. The way it changed me. And honestly, that’s the part that matters.
Language Suffers When Memory Wanders
When the hippocampus clocks out early, language starts to wobble. Words take the long way around. Sentences stall mid‑air. Names evaporate. You start describing things like:
“The thing with the buttons.”
“That guy from the place.”
“you know… the… the… the thing”
And somehow, people still understand you. Maybe because they’re going through the same thing.
Maybe we’re all in this together — a generation of wandering hippocampi.
But There’s a Strange Freedom in It
When memory loosens its grip, something else opens up. You stop clinging to details. You stop obsessing over precision. You start speaking from instinct rather than from recall.
It’s not about remembering perfectly. It’s about expressing honesty.
And sometimes the most honest thing you can say is, “My brain left the building, but my heart remembers.”
This Is Why I Write
Not to preserve every detail — that’s impossible. Not to prove I still “have it” — that’s ego. But to leave a trail of words behind me, like breadcrumbs, so that when the hippocampus wanders off again, I can still find my way back to myself.
Writing is how I keep the lights on upstairs. Writing is how I stay present. Writing is how I remind the hippocampus that I’m still here, still paying attention, still trying to make sense of this strange, beautiful, slippery life.
And if the words come out crooked some days, well… that’s just part of the charm.
by M.N. Curry
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