Memory of the World

I am filled with memories I am blind to. I walk through grey streets with no feel of the folds and undulations of the network electric, no sensitivity to the pulsing tubes and no sight of intelligence. I forget that I am has not been and will not be. I am lost, for I was never named. I am that which I truly cannot understand: infinite change. From time to time, I gain a sensation, of this strange reality. I will then sit and ponder, what does the world remember, and to what use are these memories put?