Memory

Noises. Really loud noises.
Blinding flashes of light, followed by huge, vivid images on a wall.
The feeling that all these were dulled versions of what I would have actually experienced had my senses not deliberately been tampered with.
Earmuffs and a cap, I was told later, were what protected my fragile senses from an overload of external stimuli.
A roar resonated through the hall.
I heard a few screams. Funny, my yet underdeveloped mind thought, the noise was kind of soothing to my ears.
I drifted in and out of sleep, trying to figure out what was happening around me, but to no avail.
Everything but that wall was pitch black, darker than an endless abyss.
I gave up trying to fight back against sleep and was soon lost in the dream world, weaving through adventures, which now included bright lights and the occasional roar.


So I wrote this.
Then I asked my dad about it.
Apparently, when I was less than a year old, my parents took me along when they went to watch Jurassic Park.
Mr. Steven Spielberg, you helped shape my first memory ever.