Last summer, I lost pieces of my memories and my linguistic ability for weeks. Many memories were disappeared, even my own address slipped away from my mind. That moment struck me in a way that I could not expected.

Every day felt like hard work, trying to clear the fog of amnesia and aphasia. It was terrifyingly exhausting.

By autumn, my brain began welcoming back the things that had been lost. Thanks to the pills, thanks to my old notebooks. My anchors. Tiny maps back to myself. Pages that hold moments I had forgotten I ever lived.

That was when I realised how precious it is to write things down. Each page guided me back to where things were, exactly as they were. Important and unimportant. I color my tiny maps gently, staying within the lines.

I create these tiny maps for myself— in case I find myself lost again.