At times I feel as though I have a miniature Picasso in my brain, capturing snippets of fleeting shapes, gestures, and colors and stringing them together in some unknown logical manner. Marksman by Erik Jones is like a screen cap of my mind mid-process. I like to think that every time you recall a memory, you’re actually making a new memory of that memory: each time, Picassito sits there and paints over the old canvas (with no references to work from this time). Let’s say you’re remembering a first kiss. Whether it was like eating a slice of Red Velvet or like getting slobbered by a grossly large dog, each time you recall that event, it gets slightly worn out and you lose the fine details (and maybe your mind fills in the gaps the next time). In the end, we’re left with euphoric or unbearable recollections.
…for those of you looking to forget about your slobbery smooch, inquire about Anisomycin, a protein synthesis inhibitor. Basically, memories are hunks of proteins. Via the transitive property (let’s pretend we’re in geometry class), you’ve got yourself a memory inhibitor. All you have to do is think of what you want to forget when you take Anisomycin, and you’re “free.” Interestingly, there’s a lot of controversy surrounding the use of Anisomycin on PTSD patients. It all boils down to the question, “what makes us human?”