#oneaday, Day 263: Original Sound Track

Music provides an emotional connection to memories. It can trigger memories, feelings and responses. Many people associate certain pieces of music with particular times in their lives. And, depending on your interests, these pieces of music can be from a variety of sources. They could be movie soundtracks. Pieces of music you've played yourself. The music that was playing when something awesome or terrible happened.

Or they might be video game soundtracks. Game soundtracks are quite unique in a way in that their technology has evolved very quickly. So rather than evolving over the course of hundreds of years like classical music, they evolved very distinct identities with each new generation of hardware, roughly a decade at a time. Today, we're in a peculiar situation where we have game soundtracks that are, at times, indistinguishable from movie soundtracks. But at the same time, we also are getting game soundtracks that deliberately hearken back to the distinctive sounds of the past. Which is confusing. But awesome.

So I thought I'd share a few pieces of music that I've enjoyed over the years. And, where applicable, if I can remember (and if they're not too embarrassing) the memory that's attached to them.

The Atari ST had a deeply, deeply terrible soundchip, especially when compared to its technically superior rival, the Commodore Amiga. That didn't stop a variety of composers such as Alistair Brimble trying their best to compose catchy tunes. I don't have a particular memory associated with this piece of music (besides playing Fantasy World Dizzy, that is) but this piece of music was oddly memorable. I'm not sure why, because it's not a spectacularly good piece of music. But it had that "hook".

Starfox/Starwing had a very distinctive soundtrack. The synth sounds used throughout coupled with the reasonably-convincing electric guitar sounds were actually far better than most of the stuff that the N64's execrable sound chip belched out. This piece of music in particular stuck with me. I remember playing Starfox/wing with headphones on in the lounge and getting told to be quiet because I was finding it all a bit exciting and going "Whooa!" a lot. C'mon. The first time you do that corkscrew descent to the surface of Venom? That was awesome.

I'm not afraid to admit I cried like a girl when (OMG SPOILER) Aeris/th died. I bought Final Fantasy VII specifically because my brother had said it was the first time a lot of people had felt genuine emotion from a video game. I wasn't disappointed. Aeris/th's death may be something of a cliché now. But at the time, what happened to her was shocking.

Silent Hill 2 is a game that's stuck with me for many years. Its powerful imagery, heartbreaking story and excellent theme song are partly to blame for this. The fact that I was so captivated by the story that I played through about 95% of it in one night is probably more to blame for this. I associate this piece of music with staying up that night, and also feel an emotional connection to it which I'm buggered if I can actually describe.

Not a game soundtrack, but Speed's score became my job interview soundtrack for a while. It was good driving music, so I'd listen to it on the way there and, assuming it hadn't all gone horribly wrong, on the way back too. Added a bit of drama to the commute if nothing else.

You might have forgotten about the 2204355 Dancing Chicken Man by now, but I certainly haven't. Why? Because the music on that video is now inextricably tied to my last weeks in Southampton. I was sitting up late one night contemplating the futility of existence (as you do) when SnakeLinkSonic posted a tweet which simply read "I CAN'T STOP WATCHING" and included a link to the original Flash animation that started all this nonsense off. The animation and the music made me laugh so much at I time when I was feeling so utterly terrible that I can't help but have it stuck in my mind. It reminds me of the days counting down until I'd have to leave and make a fresh start… a fresh start which I'm not sure has quite happened yet.

Basically, if there's ever a game featuring me, and I have to face a boss at the end of Disc 1, I want this music to be playing.

Again, not a specific memory attached to this one, but the Split/Second score is awesome and oddly inspirational. As such, I've adopted it as my official Going For A Run soundtrack. And it really works.

Last of all, this piece also doesn't have a specific memory attached to it (because I'm creating said memory right now), but it was introduced to me while I was writing this. (Thanks, Donna!) It's a pair of Dulcimers, an instrument I knew of but don't think I'd ever seen before. This piece is gorgeous; the sound of the instruments is full, resonant and has a sense of "purity" about it. I like it very much.

So there's some music for you. Hmm. That post took rather longer to put together than I thought it would. Oh well! Good night. Tune in tomorrow for the next episode in the thrilling series of events that has been taking place at the top of each post. Have I really just killed myself off?

#oneaday, Day 261: Random Access Memories

It's weird, the things you remember over time. Perhaps it's just me. But I've found over time that I have a fantastic memory for completely pointless crap and yet I can quite easily forget the things I need to buy from the shop in the space between stepping out of the house and reaching said shop.

So I thought I'd share a few stupid memories today for no apparent reason. I have hundreds of these. So this topic may return at some point in the future. For today, I'm going to focus on memories from my childhood.

First up: the ad starting at 2:17 of this vid right here:

Phurnacite. I'm still not entirely sure what it is, or was. But I remember this advert freaking me the fuck out when I was little despite, I believe, only ever seeing it once. Watching it now, it's completely laughable, overacted and utter nonsense. For the longest time, I couldn't even remember it was something to do with cookers. I remembered the image of the "doctors" with the masks on, though, and the woman crying going "HOW WILL I FEED MY FAMILY?"

Why do I remember that? That holds absolutely no benefit to me whatsoever unless taking part in a particularly specialist pub quiz on the subject of TV adverts from Christmas 1989 that freaked me the fuck out.

On a related note, the magazine advert for Mindscape's surgery-em-up game for the PC, Life and Death, also featured doctors in masks, bloodstained swabs and the like and also freaked me the fuck out. I have never been in hospital for an operation, and those adverts were the reason I was terrified of the prospect of ever having to do so. Disappointingly, Google Images has let me down on an actual picture of said advert. But it was in an issue of A.C.E. magazine. Which was 1) possibly the best multi-format magazine of all time, now sadly defunct and 2) the only games magazine I'm aware of that rated games out of 1,000.

At some other point during my childhood, another completely random memory I have is to do with visiting the chap who was my best friend at the time. We'd acquired some weird little toys called "Wiggly Gigglies" (yes, laugh it up, it was the 80s) and much to my chagrin, friend in question had acquired a glow-in-the-dark one. I was fascinated by the idea of a glow-in-the-dark anything at the time, so one or both of us decided that it would be a really fantastic idea to lock ourselves in his airing cupboard to see that luminousness at work. Unfortunately, the airing cupboard wasn't really big enough to even fit two kids inside, so I ended up shutting two of my fingers in the door and it really fucking hurt. It didn't break them or anything, but they were bleeding a bit. I went home shortly afterwards, and resolved never to do two things: touch a Wiggly Giggly again, and shut myself in an airing cupboard again.

In that case, the pain is probably the trigger to the memory. But as I kid, I hurt myself quite a bit—kids will be kids and all that. It's strange how that incident in particular sticks in my mind.

Let's cap this off with a third memory. What I like to call The Great Injustice. It was lunchtime at primary school, and I was enjoying a game with a girl called Anna with whom I had something of an off-on-off-on friendship in that way primary school kids do. Particularly kids of the opposite sex.

I forget the exact details of said game, but it involved swordfighting. Or rather, stick-fighting. Our school field had a number of big trees on it, and they often dropped decent-size sticks that were great for mock swordfights. And so it was that Anna and I were staging some sort of battle for some reason. It was fun. Lunchtime ended and we went inside.

When I got home that evening, I got absolutely bollocked. Turns out my mother had been wandering past the school field at the time we'd been playing our game, at a point when I'd evidently been "winning". As a result, I found myself in a lot of trouble for "hitting a girl with a stick". And no amount of protestation could convince my parents that it had, in fact, been just a game, and if you talked to Anna she would back up my story. Because, after all, who believes the screeches that come out of the mouth of an eight-year old when they're in trouble?

Hmm. These aren't terribly positive memories, are they? Perhaps I should make more of an effort to remember things that didn't freak me out or make me incandescent with an eight-year old's rage!

#oneaday, Day 234: Dear Friends

You'll surely excuse the enthusiastic gushing and emotion that is shortly to follow. You'll hopefully agree that it is justified by the time I'm done. I might be funny tomorrow. If I've had any sleep. Otherwise I'll just be grumpy. "No change there then," I hear you say.

As has hopefully been made abundantly clear by now, I am leaving Southampton very shortly. Some might say "imminently". Specifically, on Friday. The vast majority of my stuff was taken away yesterday, meaning I'm currently ensconced in a hollow shell of a house that is but a shadow of what it once was, which was in turn a shadow of what it once was prior to that. But now's not the time for such thoughts.

Today was intended to be a day of tidying up final bits and cleaning up. And indeed it has; I've packed up, tidied up and hoovered the bedroom and study, with more to be done later this evening. But today has also been a time to see friends, some of whom I haven't had the chance to see for some time, and some of whom weren't able to make it out on Friday for drinking and WUBWUBWUB.

So I spent the morning overcaffeinating myself with a "cafe crawl" alongside Ben "xoorox" Willmott (with accompaniment from Mike "Sex Panther" Porter in the first coffee shop) and then getting on with a bit of Java-fueled tidying. Having not slept terribly well last night, the experience of exhaustion coupled with hyperactivity was… curious, to say the least.

Just as Ben and I were parting ways, I ran into the very fine and lovely Elana "dollydaydream" Moylette (second from right in the header image, fact fans) who has been a great and wonderful friend over the last few years, ever since I trained the crap out of her at our local Apple Store. She was very keen for me to catch up with her later, and that's what I've just done.

I've got to say, I am 100% glad I did. I am now the proud owner of possibly the best gift anyone has ever got me (and I got a Super NES one Christmas) – a beautifully-made scrapbook/photo album full of wonderful memories. It's something that will be utterly irreplaceable in years to come, and evidence that however I might be feeling about the circumstances surrounding my departure from here, I've touched the lives of a whole bunch of people, and they, too, have enriched my life.

While it sucks balls that I am leaving, I've found it deeply touching that there are very obviously so many people out there who genuinely care about me, appreciate me for who I am and, above all, have helped me survive one of the most difficult periods of my life that I've ever been through.

So to all those people who've made it clear that I'm not going to be forgotten as soon as I drive off on Friday, thank you, from the very bottom of my heart. You are awesome, and I'll never forget you or what you've done.

Hah. The comic I pre-prepared to go at the top of this post the other day seems rather flippant now. Still, there's no arguing with The Robot.

#oneaday 214: You're Not Tom Cruise

I'm not Doctor Who, you're not Tom Cruise. So don't even think about attempting to invent your own cocktails.

I say this as a result of a memorable evening one night at university, a good few years back now. It was one of those evenings where we had just decided it was vitally important to get as blind drunk as possible, as is often the wont of people at university. At least one member of our circle of friends was in possession of some of the more "creative" spirits and liqueurs available, so we pooled our resources in an attempt to create The Next Big Thing.

To be fair, given the evidence we'd discovered on how easy it is to make a putridly-coloured yet remarkably tasty cocktail, we had faith in our own abilities to produce something delicious.

Shortly after arriving at university, we had all discovered the joy of the Juicy Lucy, a pint-based cocktail made up of a glug of vodka, a splash of Bols Blue, a bit of Taboo and then the remainder of the glass filled up with roughly half-and-half of orange juice and lemonade. The resultant glass of green liquid looks remarkably like what happens if you fill a pint glass with water and then squirt too much Fairy liquid into it. It also turns your poo green if you drink too much of it, a fact which several of us were unprepared for and thus spent a not-inconsiderable amount of time fretting the next day that we had some form of terrifying bum-cancer.

Alongside the Juicy Lucy was the even-simpler concoction dreamed up by our hall of residence's bar on "Hawaiian Night" (a night when everyone was supposed to wear Hawaiian shirts, and they turned the heating up full)—the Passion Wagon. The Passion Wagon was, again, a pint-based cocktail consisting of a shot of Passoa (passion fruit liqueur) and a bottle of Reef. That's it. It came out bright orange and tasted like Five Alive. It did not, to my knowledge, do anything unpleasant to the colour of one's bodily fluids or waste matter.

So going on that evidence, we figured that making a cocktail was pretty much simply a case of finding things which might taste nice together and then combining them together in a glass. Also, that vodka, when added to any drink, immediately makes something "more alcoholic" without making it taste any different.

How wrong we were. The first mistake we made was forgetting that Baileys curdles quite easily. After creating a number of drinks that looked like someone had spunked in, we decided that we weren't skilled enough to do that clever thing where you make the Baileys float on top. So we left that alone. For a while. Then we elected to try combining various different flavoured liqueurs together. The least (or most, depending on how you look at this) successful attempt was dubbed "The Brown Sauce", owing to its resemblance in taste to HP Sauce. For the readers unfamiliar with the wonder of HP Sauce, it is good on a bacon sandwich. It is less good in liquid form and drunk.

Eventually we gave up and went back to staples like Archers and lemonade. We didn't have another home-made cocktail night after that. We left it strictly to the professionals.

#oneaday, Day 193: Constants

Things that stay the same are supposedly boring. But they have their uses. And they don't have to be boring at all. Look at great works of art, literature, music, whatever. They don't change. They're always the same. And yet people flock to see them, read them, listen to them year after year after year.

Things that stay the same can provide comfort and a sense of familiarity. Whether this is the discarded magazine that's been sitting on the floor next to the bed for the last six months because you couldn't be arsed to find a home for it, or the friend you went to school with, that sense of familiarity can help provide some kind of firm grounding, even when all else is chaos.

Back on Day 106, I used the term "crystallised memories" to describe static objects that had memories inexorably attached to them. In some senses, this is a similar concept. But the memories that are attached to the objects can change over time. Things that are constant stay, by their very nature, constant.

Take this evening. I went to visit a friend I was at school with. Although he's got a house, is living with his girlfriend and came to the disturbing (to him) realisation that he's been working the same job for ten years, he's still the guy I went to school with. Perhaps not visually. But certainly in attitudes and behaviour. We get together, and we start acting like a couple of sixteen year old dickheads like no time whatsoever has passed. When in fact a significant proportion of both our respective lives has passed, with significant changes afoot for both of us.

We contacted another friend via Xbox LIVE while I was there. Again, a constant in terms of attitude, behaviour, character. It was like nothing had changed.

After I left my friend's house, I went for a drive to the local supermarket to pick up a couple of things I needed. This drive, again, was comfortably familiar. Although there have been some minor changes to the road layout in a few places, for the most part, these were the roads I learned to drive on, so I know them like a thing you know the layout of really well.

This is good. This sort of thing makes the whole "moving on" thing that much more bearable. The idea of moving to a new city was somewhat appealing; but the idea of being alone there and not knowing anyone was not. Taking a step "backwards" and picking up where I left off with these people while at the same time rebuilding my life into the image I want it to go into? This is (hopefully) a good thing. We shall see, I guess.

My life, and that of a number of other people too, is all chaos and flux right now. I long for the time when everything settles down and I can just start enjoying myself. I hope it won't be too long before that happens. Positive steps have been taken this week. So let's hope those positive steps lead to full-on positivity.

Things can't be that much worse than they have been. The needle has to swing the other way sometime. I'm hoping now (or at least "very soon") is the time.

#oneaday, Day 177: Sandwich

The familiar melody of the alarm on his phone sounded, waking him from his slumber suddenly. He had been having a dream of some description; it had felt enormously real at the time, but now, in the soft light of morning creeping through the crack in the curtains that she always used to hate, it was already dissipating. A cloud of memory, rising into the sky and disappearing.

He leaned over and grabbed his phone, squinting at the time through blurry vision. It felt too early. But it was a perfectly normal time to get up; quite late for some, even. It didn't feel important to get up, though. He wanted to stay lying there, gazing at nothingness, contemplating all that had come to pass and all there was to come. But at the same time, he knew that would achieve nothing. He remembered simpler times, when lying in bed meant something different; a time when it meant closeness, comfort, intimacy. Now, what did it mean?

His phone chimed as a well-timed message from a friend broke his reverie and stirred his mind into action. He was grateful to her for that; she always knew the right time to say something, even if it was just "hello". He quickly tapped out a message back to her and lay back down, closing his eyes for a moment, phone clutched in his hand.

It vibrated in his hand; a reply, and an admonishment that he should really get up rather than lying there feeling sorry for himself. Smiling weakly to himself, he did so, and staggered out of the bedroom into the hallway, through the living room and into the kitchen.

The fridge was almost empty; it had been ever since that day. He'd only stocked up on the essentials as and when he needed them. There was little point doing anything elaborate for one. There was a pack of bacon, already open and wrapped in tin foil. He picked it up and walked over to the grill, flipping it on and laying the foil out on a tray. He carefully removed two rashers of bacon from the pack and washed its sliminess from his hands, then slid the tray under the rapidly-heating grill.

More memories popped into his head; unwelcome guests. Once, there would have been four rashers on that tray, and once the kettle would have been boiling ready to make a cup of tea, perfectly timed to be ready as the bacon finished. The radio would have been on, blaring out some sort of interminably awful pop music, and the room would have felt full of life. Now it felt like a shadow of its former self, like a graveyard. Spirits inhabited the room, but they'd never be coming back.

The smell of the gradually-grilling bacon wafted to his nostrils as he got out a plate and two slices of bread. He'd butter the bread for her and leave his plain. And when it was done, he'd carry them all back to the bedroom and climb back into bed, ready to eat the food, listen to something together and, after that, enjoy a moment or two of quiet intimacy.

If he did that now, though, there would just be that same awful silence. There was no reason to go back into that room now he was up; the shadows would just claim him if he did, and the day would be gone.

He pulled the tray out from under the grill and flipped the bacon quickly with his fingertips, cursing to himself at how hot it was. Then he slid it back under, that smell filling the whole room now. It was a smell that most people find comforting, whatever state they're in; happy, sad, hungover, sober—there's always room for a bacon sandwich. He wasn't sure how he felt about it right now, as tied to these memories as it was. But he wasn't about to let things he could do nothing about spoil his enjoyment of the best thing about the morning.

It was time. He pulled the tray out again and quickly transferred the bacon to the bread, cursing again at how hot it was. The rapidly-diminishing bottle of HP sauce was already upturned ready to spill its contents onto the sandwich, just as it should be.

And he closed the sandwich, walked into the living room and sat on the couch, staring at the switched-off TV. And thus began another day alone.

#oneaday, Day 138: Days in the Sun

It was another gloriously sunny day today. It's easy to forget that England gets nice weather sometimes when an estimated 85% of our days are overcast.

Everyone is in a better mood in the sunshine. And, judging by the number of people in town, everyone skips work in the sunshine, too. I went to the park and sat in the sun for a bit and there were people from all walks of life all around. There was the chav in the open shirt who kept stroking his chest. There were the noisy, screechy girls. There were excited little kids on their half-term break headed for the playpark. And there was me.

Sitting in the sun is nice. There's something extremely pleasant about the weather being good enough for you to be able to sit (or indeed lie) on the grass and just relax. If it's been raining or snowing, or if it's cold, you'd never even think about lying down on the ground and dozing for a bit. But as soon as it gets a little bit sunny? Everyone seems to come down with narcolepsy. Well, except those people playing frisbee.

Lying in the grass is one of those things that triggers memories, particularly of being very young. I can remember lying on the grass at primary school on hot sunny days. Sometimes my friends and I would just lie there. Other times we'd talk. Other times still we'd attempt to do those stupid moves from P.E. that no-one ever does in real life. And on one memorable occasion, a friend became convinced that by doing a shoulderstand and "squeezing a bit", he could make himself fart at will. (He couldn't.)

Besides school, other grassy memories are mostly picnic-related. I have oddly strong memories of visiting the Imperial War Museum at Duxford and sitting in the grass having a picnic as we watched the planes take off, land and do various pieces of death-defying aerobatics. Thinking about it, I don't think we were actually sitting on the grass, more hanging around the car in deckchairs eating sandwiches. But sandwiches always taste better outside, as everyone well knows.

So it's been a nice day. A very nice day in fact. Even the fact that I clearly got a bit burnt judging by the tingling on my ears right now (either that or someone's talking about me) didn't detract from the niceness of the day. So that's good. Nice days are good. Nice days are much-needed. Nice days have been away for a long time, so it's, well, nice to see them again.

Let's hope this lovely summery weather continues for some time, and that we see more in the way of girls in tiny shorts and less in the way of shirtless bald chavs staggering through parks with cans of Tennents Extra clutched in their desperate sweaty gorilla-hands. And maybe some English people can get a proper tan instead of feeling the need to pointlessly slather themselves with orange paint.

#oneaday, Day 137: Flower Girl

I am almost falling asleep on my keyboard here, so I'll keep this brief to prevent falling asleep with all the letters of the keyboard printed backwards across my face. I can barely keep my eyes open. I'm not sure why I'm so tired, though I have had people over this evening and I spent the first part of my day cleaning up in preparation for said visitors. We had a lovely evening, by the way, thanks for asking.

Earlier in the day I did get a moment to record one more piano piece. I posted it on Tumblr earlier but I'm not sure who got the chance to hear it. A few people did, I guess, and it even got a couple of reblogs. But I thought for those people who don't "do" Tumblr, I'd post it here too.

The song in question is Aerith, or Aeris, or Flower Girl or whatever you want to call it. It's the piece from Final Fantasy VII that makes everyone cry. There are two reasons for this – one, it's a beautiful piece of music, and two, the most memorable point of the game in which this piece of music is heard is where Aerith/s dies. (Oh come ON! Surely everyone who is ever going to play Final Fantasy VII knows that by now.) This scene is widely regarded by many as one of the first times where computer games genuinely started to encourage emotional investment in their narratives – at least on consoles. Developers of adventure games on PC had been trying this for a long time already, but Final Fantasy VII was the first mainstream console game which people admitted crying to.

It's a cliché and a bit of a joke these days, of course, but it was my brother telling me about the sheer emotion in the game that made me originally want to pick up Final Fantasy VII. I'd never touched an RPG prior to that point and had no idea what HP, MP and Limit Breaks were. My life was shortly to change forever.

The piece of music itself, though; it's always held a peculiarly personal meaning to me, and I can't pin down why that is. I think it possibly may be something to with the fact that the older Final Fantasy games allowed you to rename your characters, so in my game, it wasn't "Aerith" dying, it was someone I knew. This made it all the more traumatic.

When I play the piece nowadays, I don't necessarily think of someone dying. But I do always find myself thinking of someone. I always feel that the character of the piece represents gentle, total, unconditional love and/or affection towards someone. So inevitably while playing it I find myself thinking of someone special to me in some way. The exact person who comes to mind has changed many times over the years, but the reason for my thinking of them hasn't. They are important.

iPhone users, click here to hear the track. Everyone else, use the Flash player below.

#oneaday, Day 118: Homecoming

It is like a ghost house. Haunted by shadows of the past, and yet at the same time pristine and new, full of possibilities, like it once was so long ago.

In through the door, into the hall. A door, usually shut, stands open, looking in one direction. Beyond the door, the darkness of the night creeps in. The other doors remain steadfastly shut, waiting for me to reveal their contents, be they painful, joyful or wrathful.

Passing through the open door, its inviting portal beckoning me within. Flashes of terrible possibilities scream through my head and I wonder if any of them are true, but none of them are. Everything is as it was, only with a layer of meaning removed. Floor once well-trodden with hard labour stands pristine and new as if nothing had ever been there. There is space, empty space, but imperceptibly, outside the gaze of reality, the memories are still there. There they sit, watching stoically, not judging, just being. But then they are not there and there is just space again.

The space we once shared together forever changed, only a discarded sleeping bag and some crumpled cushions holding memories of what once was and what eventually came to be. And the silence. The silence is deafening.

Back into the hall. Hand trembling, I open a door. A door I feared to open. Inside are nothing but spirits. What the room once was there is no trace of, not physically. But the memories are here too. Standing in the corner. Stretched under the window. Sitting in the single lonely chair. They are here, looking at me, not a trace of judgement in them. Do they have faces? I can't see, and then they are gone again.

Back to the hall. Hand trembling, I open another door. Another door I feared to open. Inside it is like the room behind the open door, everything as it once was but with a layer of meaning stripped away to reveal – what? Is there deeper meaning left beneath?

I sit. Two crystallised memories stare back at me, in physical form this time. I wondered if they would remain strong or shatter like everything else. But they are here. It fills me with great sadness and great joy to see them, for they represent the good times. They were alive, and took in everything that once was. Do they still live? They do, but they do not understand. Part of what gave them life has gone, but the other part remains. Do they still live? They do. And they bear a missive.

The message should make me weep, or wrathful, or sicken with heartbreak, but it does not. Something about it is calming. Perhaps its words merely float on my surface to be absorbed at a later time. The meaning is there and was already there, but right now I do not feel it. I feel little but reality loosening its bonds on my mind and my soul.

I rise off the ground and float through this home, this place of memories, stripped and gutted of part of that which made it what it was, and I feel…

#oneaday, Day 106: Crystallised Memories

It's funny how certain objects come to have memories attached to them. Inanimate, unremarkable objects. They could be an item of furniture. They could be a book. They could be a piece of technology. They could be a stuffed toy.

Look around the room you're in right now. Look at some of the things that are sitting in it. And not just the big things, or things which are specifically designed to evoke a memory, like photographs.

What memories are attached to, say, the lamp by the side of your bed? Or the clock radio? Or the bookcase? Or the books which lay discarded on the floor? Or that mark on the wall? If you think about it, you can probably attach a memory to every tiny little thing that you can see in any room – assuming you've had the time to "get to know" that room, of course.

When you move on to a new place, sometimes other peoples' memories are left behind. They may take away the things that can be carried, packed into boxes or loaded into a van, but some things can't be taken away. A whole room can hold memories, both good and bad. And it doesn't have to be just one memory at a time. In the room where I am right now I can see things which represent good times, things which represent bad times, and things which represent the very worst of times. Some objects in this room represent more than one thing. Some things hold conflicting emotions. Those things are confusing, but the important thing to remember is that the object holds all of those memories, not just the bad ones.

It's easy to let bad memories and bad experiences colour everything that you do. They say bad experiences and bad memories help to make you stronger. It may well be true, but it doesn't make them any easier to live through, or to relive. But, as received wisdom has it, it's the sum of our experiences that make us who we are. And it's by examining the sum of those experiences that we, ourselves, can learn to understand who we are.

I'm not sure I really know who I am. I've drifted along for so long, wondering if I'm doing the right thing for myself and for other people. I don't feel like I've found it yet, and recent events (which I won't be going into detail about here) have made me think that no, clearly I'm not doing the right thing – for myself, more than anything else. It's a selfish attitude to take, but when it comes down to it, the only person's destiny that you have any control over is your own. You can't always live your life for the approval of other people, least of all if you're not happy yourself.

So that's why when some of these crystallised memories disappear, when some are left behind and some are taken with me to wherever life takes me next, I know that's just another step. There have been missteps, and there have been backwards steps, but they're all steps nonetheless; steps on that long, arduous, exhausting and frankly irritating journey that they call life.

I'm kind of ready to get where I'm supposed to be going now, thanks. I thought I was already there for a while, but there actually seem to be some significant engineering works in the way. Where's the nearest replacement bus service?