Seven hundred days on this rock is too many.
I have to concentrate to remember what my grandparents looked like. I can’t remember their voices anymore.
I barely remember the captain’s voice, and that’s mostly because I remember some of the announcements that were made daily as if they’re burned into my soul. But they’re becoming words now, less than sounds, and I think what I remember is remembering them.
I’m glad I remember enough of civilization to know things like how doors work and what a security system was and how toothpaste tasted. I may still need to create some of them myself, so I’m glad that’s still there.
And I still want to go home.
I took yesterday off so today I spent the day clearing brush around the hills, which are rapidly growing in size. They’re not the mountains to the east, but they’re not the rolling hills near my main camp, either.
At least clearing brush helps me gather seeds and not think of the date.