odds n' ends
どこでもいいよ
I juggle with the idea of an epoch-old memory because the stories of Emanon were inherently romantic. It's objectively nice to know, as well as recall, how life was first conceived in this world or when people began greeting their neighbors each morning and called that matter-of-fact. The me who remembers will probably be a better person than the me who does not.
But genetics decided to station me on the opposite side of the platform, blessing me with a rather short-termed memory. Here, I offer my condolences to the friend I couldn't remember was pescatarian until a good three weeks into our acquaintance and to another whom I forgot changed their pronouns one month prior. I am making excuses. In retrospect, these excuses conveniently buttress my escapist tendencies. You know that petty maneuver I dismissed as the byproduct of alcohol? I was actually sober and it's my fault, but I don't tell you that. And the time I impressed you with my exploits in that one obscure game only you knew about? In truth, I harbor zero interest in saving the world--I just wanted us to talk for a bit longer. Memories are quite the pesky entities, embellishing and augmenting themselves not by will, but by the injustice of your own subconscious. The singularity? Just kidding. They manifest in dreams and build proxies. What an utilitarian tragedy. I'm not lying, I merely just forgot. I laugh more than I should again today about something insignificant, although I’ll probably forget why by tomorrow. And that's okay too. |
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July 2019
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