Written for the Wind
Pencil on Paper
I decided to write an autobiography. But it’s been only 20-something years.
I tried to write down the oldest memories I could remember. There were some, but I was never sure if they are my own memories, or something that someone told me, or something I constructed from photographic memories. Maybe things gotten mixed up with stories and fictions I have read/saw in my life. I tried to undo the memories to weave out one coherent history. No matter how hard I tried, the time-line is confused, and new anecdotes pop up all the time, ones that I couldn’t connect to others, they stayed within me, while refusing to be a part of the whole.
The story got further and further away from the reality or what I thought to be real, and the writing turned into cheap melodrama. It was unoriginal and mediocre. Feeling stupid, I decided to make up an epilogue, a story that is a total fake, then let the wind take the entire story. The unnumbered pages, the fragments of my life, are scattered. If someone picks up a page and read a line or two, that would be nice.