Writing retrospectively and alone in my room, without any witness, I am aware that you cannot pry apart what in fact, is more fictitious than the other. But I’ve just dropped my keys in the bowl and sat myself on this chair with my socks still intact. I have not mustered the patience to shut the windows so my floor is now damp and the air droops heavy with the scent of half hearted endearments and a terrible concoction of sweat, like a crowded subway station filled with waiting and wants. I am all set to write– congeal the freshest segment of my memory within the spaces of these clicking keys. For the respect of privacy, I will adhere to the rules of anonymity and gender ambiguity for the unbiased reading of what I am about to express. This is dear to my heart, in which I’ve exhausted not only myself but the tireless and reticent string of words that I have many times used, disposed of and replaced with undeniable difficulty as if parting with a loved one: first with the utmost intensity of emotions to compensate for loss of reasonable convention, and as time ensues, tapers until the next utterance triggers some sort of strange memory, each syllable punching into solid seconds, where the clarity of the past seems to feel more poignant than when your loved one first left.
But what is truth except for the revelation of a desire to understand the present as a product of our memories? In fact, this fragment of my memory of which I’m about to write to you soon reiterates itself without my knowing, which reminds me of how a friend was asking me if I had seen her wallet, her eyes searching like an anxious prey, only for me to tell her, “You’re holding it!”. She merely laughs at her momentary lapse into what we would call, a senile moment.
But as I remember it, I wept while my lips quivered as X spoke about love. Y had died, and it was the duty of the eldest M to prepare an eulogy as a consolation to the bereaved. The ashes are kept, where young men chasing after their ‘maidens’ will never catch them, neither would the young women ever grow old. Pardon my digression for this isn’t what I meant to write to you about. In fact, after a long consideration as I tread along these words, this is what I really mean to say and all you really need to know: