L'absent
À ma manière 🪦
- Aug 18, 2024
- 1,005
In the hours following death, the brain, that vast sea of synapses, stops flowing. The cells, once in full force, are now heading towards their end. The electrical connections, which weaved the networks of thoughts and memories, weaken, like a river that loses its current. Interneurons begin to cease their exchange of electrical signals. Long-term memory, the one that lived in the hippocampus and prefrontal cortex, is now out of breath. The synaptic proteins that bound the information together are destroyed. Like small molecules of calcium, accumulated in the synapses, which no longer transmit life, disintegrate and dissolve into nothingness. The brain, deprived of oxygen, stops synthesizing ATP, the source that powered every cognitive process. The memory traces, which previously solidified in the memory, now liquefy like crystals that cannot resist breaking. Microglia awaken, but not to protect. They attack, consume, remove dead cells, swallowing pieces of what was once thought.
In every corner of the mind, neurotransmitters no longer flow. The glutamate that connected the memories is dispersed, the acetylcholine that ignited the clarity of thought vanishes. The images, once as clear as photographs, now fade into an indistinct nothingness. The face of a love, the sound of a laugh, the scent of a distant morning become shapeless shadows. As decomposition advances, even implicit memory, linked to movements and habits, succumbs to the collapse of the nervous system. The body lets go and the motor trajectories that once found their reflection in the muscles dissolve, like notes erased on a blackboard. And so, in the slow fading of matter, memories do not all shatter in one fell swoop. The synapses gradually crumble, like leaves falling in a long autumn, until, after weeks, every trace of the past is annihilated, and nothing remains except the silence of what once was.