So I got to thinking: How much would I pay for a hard-drive that contained every single image captured by my own eyes? What would my autobiography, uncensored and limited only by the ability of my photoreceptors to convert light into electrical signals, be worth?
My initial answer: everything and nothing. I hedged, what can I say.
Everything in the sense that memories fade. Just maybe, deep inside, hidden behind a network of interconnected neurons, there’s an image I’d give up almost everything to see again. Though I don’t know it yet, perhaps there is a critical part of my history that I can’t live without, and if the only way to recall it was by purchasing this hard-drive, I’d have no choice but to risk everything to buy it.
Nothing in the sense that I’m still creating memories and should honor my mind’s self-selection process. I’ve had to delete images from my camera’s full memory card, on the spot, and more often than not it was a difficult task. Imagine deleting the look on your grandfather’s face the day you took your first steps in order to take a picture with your arm around Charlie Sheen? In so many ways, I’m thrilled my brain does the job for me. Well that, and there are things I’d rather not see again.
My final answer: nothing, unless my life depended on it.
What would you pay for your hard-drive?