So I have two midterms next week; what am I doing at this moment? Reading my old writings, of course. The method of procrastination, however, does have its cause: Laure's note on Facebook. I accidentally started reading it after clicking on Benita's profile. Somehow, Laure's flair of expression reminded me a lot of the old me - the part I am half-heartedly trying to forget.
Six months ago, I would not even consider the act of forgetting a method of therapy. Memories, to me, are the most precious possessions. First of all, they are very portable. Secondly, they document feelings and a person's development. The human brain sadly does not guarantee permanent storage; this is the moment when secondary storage devices come into play. To satisfy the exhibitionist in me, I started to blog. Is a public blog an ideal location for delicate feelings? Three years ago, I thought so. One year later, I proved myself wrong.
But then I kept on writing, unable to concede that I had done something horribly wrong, unable to see that my indignation was incredibly childish, and unable to realize that sulking would lead me to absolutely no where. No doubt, however, that 2005 and 2006 were the worst years I have ever lived through. Each blow to my self-esteem and each reinforcement for my loneliness often lead to grotesque outbursts of rage - against those who actually cared about me. It took me two years to reconcile myself to my situation.
When I could finally afford rational thoughts, I saw myself in the past two years for the first time: childish, shameful, and utterly uneconomical. I can do nothing to change the past. The only action I can take is to forgive myself, but clemency to oneself hardly eradicates the roots of shame. A document of personal development becomes hard evidence for one's vices and weaknesses. Why should I not remove them all? I have learned my lesson; now I can forget why I had to learn this lesson.
There is at least one item in my room that will prevent me from excising memories: a diet Pepsi can. There are only two people in this world who know about this particular container, or perhaps there is only one, more precisely, because the other has probably forgotten about it. Not everyone can manage such ridiculous attachment to physical, especially recyclable, containers. Once a week, whenever I remember, I use this can to fill up water to feed the only life (beside myself) in my room: a pot of baby bamboos (and the life belongs to the bamboos, not the pot). Sometimes I daydream about a dramatic moment, in which I finally decide to free myself from all attachments to the past and bring this diet Pepsi can to the old Chinese scavenging couple on campus. With a hypnotic gaze, I hand out the can to the old man, who takes it with a sincere smile, and a silent nod of gratitude.
That is not going to happen, otherwise my baby bamboos will die.
Reading through my old writings, I was struck by a particular remark on a radio channel: 90.9. Espace Musique. My favorite channel, and actually the only one I actively listen to. I had forgotten how I found the channel in the first place. Now I remember.
And for this reason alone, I shall retain my writings.
How did it all begin again? A pair of roller blades? A walk from the music building to Thunderbird residence? A random remark from a former employer? International Student Gala. A car ride.
All bygones.
I have learned my lesson. Now, I am ready for tomorrow.
Hermine will cheer for me, and so will Kamala.
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