Accidentally or otherwise, your memories are primarily nonsense. Nonsense or embarrassments or otherwise essentially degrading. Perhaps you have spent so much time in worthless activity that these are the only things to have seeped through, your memory rendered ineffectual through sheer saturation of moments you would not wish ever to recall, now so fundamental to general information storage or the fitting together of detail with detail that without them you would have no past at all.
You wonder, if some injury or eruption of old age was to wear away the exterior of your mind, lay bare only those deepest or most primary parts of yourself, if those would be all that remained. Despite the accumulation of them, the vast and relentless accumulation of them, you do not consider yourself a person for whom those things would ordinarily apply, in general. Yet surely the person you would become at such a point would have only those items at their disposal to self-assert and so could not help but be so after all, or at least be some hybrid thing that you have never actually been in your true history, despite the evidence. Surely anyone observing you—you are thinking of doctors or loved ones now, someone kneeling at your bed perhaps, your sick bed, tutting and weeping or laughing and distracting, perhaps they have gifts?—would assume that this was an accurate incarnation of yourself from some younger time, perhaps one they never encountered themselves, despite having known you, but always suspected lurked within, or did not: a younger you all clothed-up in the particular detritus of your-age-at-that-time, deviant and insane.
So: that memory, the same one. The same starting point, the initial frame of the image, call it that, as you bleed from anteroom to conversation, feels the same, has the same initial background colouration or grading, though not that, although of course neither recollection is really available to you in any precision. This is an illusion and a lie but you hope it is helpful. You try to focus more precisely but know that only the vague and impressionistic distance of your prior attempts has any likely veracity, sparse as it might be, and that any detail you may see now is guessed at, transient, and even if true only accidentally so.
It ultimately leads to much the same place: the Vague Hubbub. As you fear, it is different on this passage through, despite your recalling it sufficiently well only a short time ago. You cannot rule out self sabotage. The thin woman looking up towards yellow light: it may have been candles—candles were not used, or at least do not appear in any of the remainder of that day’s events as recalled from now—or a meager interior bulb.