How many times do we remember things that we could not possibly remember? How many of our memories are constructed or reconstructed, built up out of what other people tell us, the photos we have, our shared social media histories? I’m sure everyone knows of memories they have that could not possibly be real memories, but James takes this truth and extends it to the extreme, impossible, traumatic end: What if all our memories are constructed, and all shared with everyone else? How do we know what is ours, and who we are?
What a great, compelling, terrifying, heartbreaking story.