I'm struck by a sudden urge to change the blog title to "Memorabilia." The reason is as simple as this space being an integral part of an indelible memory.
I log in to unload my waves of thoughts, both conscious and unconscious, often onto drafts. But today, a profound wave washes ashore, and the intensity of this post may be shallow or non-existent—only because it's Sunday, and, well, I'm feeling a tad lazy!
Once, I held you in my mind for the longest time, and now, I'm setting you free.
People recall their first love or first kiss; sometimes, those memories fade. Some choose not to cling on, while others find it impossible to let go. Life-changing decisions often hinge on "can" or "cannot." Memory, at times, is like a weed beneath the snow—seemingly lifeless, yet existing. But as the snow melts in spring, it comes crawling back to life.
I find myself in a relationship with a memory—from the summer of 1998. I was a ten-year-old, clutching an abridged version of Charles Dickens, a gift from an uncle who chose literature over toys. Back when I was eight, I possessed only four fairy tale books, my sole treasures. (I admit, it's a bit embarrassing.)
Yet, there's something magical; I still feel ten when the book is in my hands at the age of 26. Whimsical, isn't it?
Embarking on a journey, clutching the first book that might alter everything in this moment. An e-book in my hand, "Sputnik Sweetheart."
You're words, You are every book you have read and every book you will read. You are your thoughts rummaging through your veins in your brain. You're the green-blue veins that try to peek through your skin. You are unconsciously the first day of the spring and the last day of the cold. You are the dawn and you are the star that twinkles bright. You are a moment, fleeting wildly into oblivion but you are an abstract idea in someone's head. You're a realization. You are the distance between imagination and reality. You are probably an Art put forth on a canvas or moulded into a poesy. You're the seed and the memory, just the weed.
While you're reading this, you are somewhere inside my head waiting through the end of the last line.
This is a memory.
