The question was asked of him today. Why must we go forth and not back; sojourn and never settle. The right is mine to know, for this journey is not his alone.
“A right? Y’ain’t got no right to know!” he said in his drawn out, improper voice.
I am not well at conflict, I suppose, for nothing was said by me after.
“When you remember, then you will know.” It surprised, being said properly by Harry.
It is not false; the past cannot be remembered. Yet some things can. Words. A flurry of words is remembered. I use words I am not even sure Harry knows what they mean. Harry is my brother. I remember this. The normal, daily necessities of life, details, and situations are remembered, as long as it is an object within the dealings of my previous three weeks.
It is my wish I had written in this journal when I had first awoken. To be able to turn to that page and read of what happened: where I was, who was around me, if I was hurt. It pains me as if I will never know. For I ask Harry and he angers and to repeat would be the same result, ending void of answers and the effort for naught.
It is a flenched late day right now and we are still by the track. Harry went into the trees to find food for us and left me here to build a fire, which I have not done yet, although myself would enjoy being razzled.
That is our normal schedule. We walk along the track until it gets darkish or we get hanspers, I’m often the latter. Then he goes and finds a supper and I make the fire. It is the same practice every single day. It is dauntingly without daunt.