Questions, and answers.

A faint aroma of cake and coffee drifted through the open door of the cafe, as it is opened for a sharply dressed customer. There were about fifteen people sitting inside it. People only come to Cafe Amr for one reason, and that is the excellent cakes, and the finest coffee in the world. Most people that is.

Some come for more surreptitious reasons, such as to sit among the finest people that society has to offer. coming here is costly after all. Again the door opened, this time for a whore, who was obviously here to escort some rich loser. she seemed to be high, probably due to the rich man. Again the smell of cake mixed with the smell of coffee came to me for a moment.

Do i like cake? Do i like coffee? i don't know. but it sure would be nice to be inside, in the warmth. it was freezing outside. i definitely do not like that.

i would have taken my hands out of my pockets to rub them together for heat, but that would have been asking for trouble. the doormen of the Amr dont like my tattoos for some reason. when i had gone there for the first time, both of the tattoos on my forearms and wrists had been visible. Before they beat me up, they had yelled a lot of gibberish at me, which i had barely understood, repeatedly pointing at my tattoos. at that time, my knowledge of their language had been minimal, a problem that had been rectified hence.

a wiser man than me, would have avoided coming here after that time, but as foolhardy as i am, i had decided to return the next day, keeping my arms and face covered. they didnt mind that; me standing outside their door, wearing a ragged looking overcoat and a hat that covered my face enough to be disguised, as long as i was silent and just stood there. sometimes they even invited me in at night, after closing time, to share dinner with them; dinner that they brought from their homes, cooked by their loving wives or caring mothers for them. i accepted all those invitations, though i always had to keep my hands covered in there, and i rarely spoke.

they think i am a homeless man with a history of getting bet up, probably from bar fights. they even blame my lost memory on that, though a few of the waitresses are quick to point out that i have been really good since the time i started coming by the Amr. as far as they can tell, i have never been to a bar, or been involved in any sort of fight since i have started standing outside their shop for a few hours everyday.

i don't know why i do it, coming back to the same place where i was beaten up for tattoos. hell, i cant even remember why i ever came there in the first place. maybe it had something to do with the time i cannot remember. or maybe i really have nothing better to do all day, other than standing here, or returning back to the medical center, where they are still trying to determine why i do not remember a day of my life more than an year and thirteen days old. thats the end of my memories, 378 days so far. 

the people at the medical center have been most kind though, letting me stay, feeding me, clothing me, and in general taking care of me, for so long. they know as well as i do that if i cannot stay at the center, then i have no place to stay, and no way of earning any money. until they figure some way out of my problems, they let me stay there, for the occasional price of letting them perform tests on my head to figure out what went wrong. 

i dont know what went wrong. i dont know why i cant remember who i am. i cannot remember anything. no identity, no religion, no opinions, not even any set of moral codes that i followed. i dont have any personal memory. 

whoever stripped me of my memory, did a thorough job, thorough enough to leave nothing behind. not a personality, not an identity, not something to believe in. nothing at all. all that i can remember are a large number of random facts, on a large number of topics. 

i know procedures of surgery that even the master surgeon here at the medical center was not aware of until i spoke of them. and i also know the names of most stars visible to the naked eye. i can predict snowfall, rain, storms, even an earthquake once.
i can quote complex mathematical theory that no one else that i have met in my memory can understand. i can quote conversations that i have heard verbatim. i also often quote many famous scriptures, whether they be religious, spiritual, or even just popular plays. but i cannot remember reading any of them. and i certainly cannot remember which book i am quoting until i am told by someone else. i do not even know that i am quoting anything. the words just pop into my head, as a sort of appropriate response to the conversation at hand.

its like a library. a large storehouse of information. i do not know what to do with the information. its just facts. i cant use them. for nearly six months, i did not even have reason, or understanding of those things, though under the watchful eye of the nurses, i have begun to understand things again, ask questions, try to find a reason for things to be. 

It is futile though. most times, i just need to think a question up, and i instantly know the answer. i know why it rains, why it snows, why my blood needs to remain warm, and why i shouldn't eat some food items, or drink certain beverages.

i cant feel. anything. i lack emotion. 

i cant cry. i cant laugh. i understand what love is supposed to be, what hatred is like, and what causes them, but i cant do either. the closest i have come to feel about anything, is the snow. it makes me somewhat... sad. i dont like it. i dont like the cold that comes with it. from my vast knowledge of human psyche, i can only presume that this unusual presence of feeling in my life, is a reaction to the fact that i was found half frozen, and nearly dead in the snow. 

i do not feel anything. even as i think about the supposedly unusual lack of feeling, it strikes me, that the only reason i think that i should have any of these, emotions, is because the surgeon and nearly everyone else i have seen, seems to think that i should have them. they find it odd, that seeing a lame puppy does not make me sad. they find it odd that when i see a mother taking care of her child, i do not see love, but instead see a survival instinct in the mother. 

i cannot feel anything.

there is a play that was performed centuries ago, as a tribute to the gods. in it, there is a story, of a God, named Thom. Thom was the god of adventure, always seeking new places, and new adventures. the story goes that once upon a time in his travels, he met a father who had raped and murdered his daughter. it is said that Thom, on meeting this man asked him if he could not feel the betrayal that he had done to his daughter. Thom asked if he did not see his daughters pain and suffering when he cut her neck. 

they say the man replied that he couldnt feel her pain. he couldnt in fact feel anything. he is said to have replied to the god by saying that he felt nothing, not revulsion at what he had done, and not sadness for the loss of his daughter. 

Thom is said to have killed that man. and before he killed him, they say that he said some words to him. these words- 

"You say man, that you feel nothing? then you are a monster, for the gods made man to feel things, not to be indifferent to them."

i feel nothing. i am nothing. not a name, not a identity, not a personality. nothing. someone once said, that the measure of a man, was his identity, his personality, his reputation.
i have neither. does it mean i am not a man?

does it mean i am a monster?

does it mean, that if Thom exists, then he will someday kill me too for the same reason? 

does it mean that i deserve that death?

i cannot decide. 

With the equivalent of several libraries of knowledge in my head, i cannot decide.

all i have is questions. no answers. 

and the more answers i find, the more questions are raised.

Help me. is there no one who can help me?

God save me.