Writing of this memoir,I've thougt remarkably little about those days in this year,at least consciously.The associations of memories bring to the surface are as unpleasant as week-old landcorpses of earthquake.
Hurmz... as a result, I never really questioned my decision to walk down the tracks.Put another way,I've wondered sometimes about what I had decided to do but never about I did it.
I dont want to hear:
"Down deep inside,I dont like u.Nothing will make me like u.U forced urself on me.U r an unbidden guest in my life."
The most important things are the hardest things to say.They are the things u get ashamed of, because words diminish them-words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out.But it's more than that, isnt it?The most importan things lie to close to wherever ur secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure ur enemies would love to steal away.And u make revelations that cast u dearly only to have people look at u in a funny way, not understanding what u've said at all, or why, u thought it was so important that u almost cried while u were saying it.That the worst,I think, when the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ears.
But now a much simpler scenario come to my mind.Maybe that's best.Maybe I even did to purpose, because a part of my .........were end.Needs for it end.Before something bad happens.
These days my memory is like a cloth bag filled with water but I will remember for long enough..