Adopt this story: 7 "The pony from Elsewhere."

This is the introduction to a story I had failed to start, which I call, "The pony from Elsewhere."

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Most stories, logically, start at the beginning. There are a few that start at some climax, or halfway point, then work their way, again, from the beginning. There's nothing I'd like more than to do that, to start telling my story using logical, time related narratives. The only problem with that is that I don't remember.

I know what you're thinking. Writing that looks cliché even to me. It'd be like if I started by writing, 'It was a dark and stormy night.' As much as I wish to, I honestly don't remember.

If knowledge truly was power, I was the poorest of the poor. Even trivial day-to-day things like my favorite food or color were lost. I was told that it was no small miracle that I could still walk and talk.

I recently learned a saying from a good friend of mine, "Hindsight is twenty-twenty." Looking back on my recent past, and in taking with those who were around at the time, I was able to piece together some small fragments of what happened. It's not very much to go on, but even the smallest details from them help me draw a better picture of my past self.

I can't start from the beginning because it was a jumbled mess of lights and sounds. There was no exact location, or anything more memorable than a smudge of contrasting colors. I couldn't even compare it to anything I've seen since I woke up.

My 'waking up' is sort of a misnomer. I didn't so much wake up, as I was never really asleep. From my point of view, there was nothing and no one, then suddenly I was me. It's like I didn't exist but then I all at once did. It's rather confusing to try to explain it.

Imagine trying to explain the how to draw a duck to a person who is without sight and is also deaf, using only interpretative dance. Maybe now you can start to understand what I'm talking about. Unless that made things more confusing, then I give you my most sincere apologies.

My good friend who told me the thing about hind sight thought it would be wise to keep track of my thoughts and daily life in case something happens to my memory, again. She worries that something could trigger a relapse, that I would have to rebuild my life again from scratch. She worries about a lot of things, but more recently, worries about me more than anything else.

If I can't tell you more about myself, then maybe I should tell you more about her. How she found me. How we found each other.