For a while I thought I had perfect memory. That I can play back any scene or sequence of scenes of any length at any time. That I can go back in time as far as I want. In trying to do so, I would finally reach a limit – the earliest remaining scene in my memory played backwards got blurred. But I was convinced that if I tried hard enough, I would get to the point of my birth. Or perhaps even earlier than that. The thought of being able to go there, that early, filled me with a slight dread; something was holding me back. In contrast, I had free access to all the time afterwards. As I was lying in bed in the evenings, I would watched this multimedia diary, deriving deep satisfaction from it. I didn't tell anyone about it.

Until at some point, sometime at the turn of kindergarten and school age, my private photoplasticon broke down. The accuracy of my memory was questioned several times, certain inaccuracies with the “real facts” were pointed out to me, some alleged mistakes were laughed at several times. By doing so, probably unintentionally, because only by replicating (without any deeper thought) habitual superstitions about the nature of things, some pseudo ideal of pseudo objectivity got produced in my mind. And to make matters worse, it was accompanied by a deep, deep complex in that regard.

Oh, how foolish I was. For a while. Luckily, it is never too late to grow wise again. 

(transl. Magdalena Małek-Andrzejowska)