Nothing Serious

Lately, I have been working on my life project.

There are so many ways on how to start it, but I guess it would be best if I would do so from the start. And that could only be the earliest childhood memories that I have, memories whose fingers have clawed deep and fast, that I still remember them as if they were only yesterday when the truth is, some details of yesterday I have already forgotten.

There is a certain trap in trying to remember memories. Somehow, I was afraid if what I was remembering really happened, or just offshoots of my imaginative and creative mind (fine, sue me!). and though I wanted to set the details as much as possible, considering for whom I am writing one of the books, I found myself cautious, less I would end up making up a story rather than what I have set myself to do, and that is telling a story as it happened.

The good thing is, after I got a hang out of being cautious, of looking out for embellishments in my tales, one by one, like little frightened children who went hiding after some monster ran after them, the memories came back, pace by pace, until I found myself laughing and smiling as they gathered themselves around me, above me, beside me, below me.

My fingers, with the help of my trusted pen and paper, went the whole nine and a half yards to welcome them all, until they could take no more. It has been a long time since I have sit down and write like they usually do in the old days.

My fingers were straining, trembling, aching. And yet it was worth it.

Of course, it would have been beautiful if there was no need for me to write the stories down, if I could just tell them, like stories meant to be told on a cold night where only distant stars claim the sky, around a burning fire, the dance of the flames shadows dancing on my face, blending with the glimmer in my eyes and in the wave of my hand.

But that is entirely why I am writing them down, just in case even this simple pleasure of being able to tell the story as how they should be done, in the flesh, would be denied to someone as starving and thriving and striving, and as damned an artiste as I am.