The memory man is a man, not remembered much, ironical considering his name but that was his fate. Like the ferry man, the memory man was resigned to an eternity of service, as the stars were to the moon,the men to the gods, the memory man served the stories, the stories of man. The memory man is neither cruel,nor kind. He is a watcher, an observer. Man rarely fascinated him anymore, the stories they lived were tedious and tiresome, filled with drudgery and misery, pastel lives, not worth mention let alone the gift of remembrance.
Long gone are the times when men valued memory. They valued the gift of eternity memory provided. These men of power and means were distinguished and blue. They outdid each other with charities and tombs, plaques on the walls, titles to their names, their power was in their remembrance. Every time a man died unkown, a tragedy occurs at the other side of the world, much like all things unknown and unexplained, the only ones to weep and mourn at the great,infinite tragedy of being fogotten are the ones forgotten themselves. The grey,translucent figures that walk between the walls, their feeble knocks, their timid protests fall on deaf ears. Even in death, they were unremarkable and therein lied the great,infinite,tragedy. In life and in death,they could never gather the gumption to step apart,to be truly and absolutely alone with themselves. These men of grey transluence became memory men. They lived their unremarkable lives and died their unremarkable deaths to spend an eternity a slave to memory. They kept meticulous records, every single moment was scribbled in cursive on whirlpool parchments, some ended neat, some ended torn and incomplete. The memory man watched and wrote. Never a moment to rest for it was his fate to remember their stories and to remember his, to remember the ones they all wanted to hear and the ones nobody cared. He watched and wrote.
The memory man was an exercise in indifference. He recorded the stories with no opinions with no bias. The memory man was a photograph, it was as it is and nothing above or beyond that. Once in a while, when the moon flushed red, the memory man would be more vulnerable to the tale. Once in a while, the memory man would be so affected so moved,so involved in the tale that despite his strongest will and resolve, he can not just watch and write.
Mister Blue loved blue. He wrote in blue. His parchments were rolls of blue; oceans and skies and the deepest of baby blue eyes. His robes were grey and translucent,regulatory robes they all wore but on him they were wistful and blue, much like the man himself. Mister Blue is a memory man. His human life had been vague and fuzzy, a mild dream, a pleasant buzzing sound was his life. His years as memory man, he had spent devoting his time to fussing over the nitty gritties, the curl of the ‘y’, the period precisely above the ‘i’ and just the right amount of blue in the ‘ink’, not too dark, not too bright. One day,like many others before and many others after, Mister blue was pouring over his parchments. He was currently in the process of auditing the lifetime and memories of a certain someone and then abruptly he stopped. The blue didn’t match. For the first time, in his long standing career as memory man, he couldn’t find the words. He couldn’t watch and write in the polite,precise manner sans bias sans colour He had all along. It wasn’t enough.
The memory man cheated on his fate and became the story to the certain someone, all while the moon was at its highest,vivid red and awake.