I asked a friend of mine if she’s getting married soon, only to be reminded that she already is. We were only chatting on Facebook, but I had a clear picture of her pulling her crazy smile and saying the words out loud while laughingly punching them in on the keyboard. I was even invited, she told me. And that reminded me of why I decided to start writing before.

Besides the embarrassing failings of my 30-year-old mind, I’ve come to prove that what many say about memory is true—that it is fiction. It’s a story that can change depending on when or where we try to remember it. We lowly creatures tend to be selective in our recall, often discriminating fragments that our present personas refuse to accept. But a page will always hold whatever was true for us at the moment of writing.

I guess that’s one way I can justify my obsession with buying notebooks, even if only half of them actually get vandalized by my handwriting. One of them holds my scribbles only as far as the 14th page, and that one has an entry for the 14th of April, 2010. I no longer recall what was on my mind at the time, but I remember where I was and what it was like just sitting there in that moment. I remember it now, remember just enough to write it again this way:

“A film of afternoon warmth covers a side of my face while the rest of the light makes little sparkles on the tiny creases of my hands.”

An insignificant story that is made memorable by a string of words.

Sometimes you need your old self to remind you of things you knew before.


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