The Real Beginning

The following is the original preface to the journal I was going to hand-write (it only contained several entries before I gave up for about a year and ultimately returned via the internet). It's clearly very juvenile, but at the same time the central intent has remained quite unchanged. Some punctuation changed so I don't twitch reading it.

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"This is my life - my friends, my family, my self...I'm not doing this because I'm lonely or bored or don't have countless other things I could be doing, it's just that I don't want to forget. Life might be short, but that doesn't mean you'll remember it all. I've seen it in so many people - what they've lost; I've seen how much they want it back even though they don't know what it is to start with. We all lose something sooner or later. I've already lost more than I'd like to. It's just a matter of getting it back..."

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To think that my memory is like a black hole where memories go and can never escape compared to the craptastic memories of most of my friends. I don't really remember incredibly important things, but any mundane detail you could imagine I can tell you. I can remember exact words, times, slight movements, outfits...a sigh, a misplaced hair, a smile...and at the same time, I can forget if I've even eaten today. Maybe I'm filling up too much space with remembering the texture of a girl's lips on my cheek and not enough with knowing whether I have enough clean clothing to finish the week.

Even if I am, though, I wouldn't change it. It's something of a torture to be able to perfectly relive something over and over, but in order to learn the absolute most that I possibly could, I couldn't have received a better curse.