I am four days behind, but I don’t care, I will write what I can and when I can. The funny thing is that what I wrote the other day happened in real life afterwards. Remember me walking at the beach, going into the café and meeting a man with red hair? Well, it happened last Sunday. I was at the beach, it was windy and the guy at the café had red hair. He was much taller than the one from my story and he was married and with two children. He didn’t order tea though. He was much more fancy and ordered a cappuccino. His hair was an unknown land, very textured and of beautiful tint. His blue eyes were a nice contrast to it. But nothing ever happened. Both stories are fictional and much more down to earth than the reader imagines. Both stories aren’t stories at all. Just a fragment of my memory.
Fragmentary memory.
My memory wants to remember some things. And some faces. Your face. A family house. The tone of your voice when you're not saying a thing, but looking in the mirror and I can hear your voice reflecting. Because I am looking there too. It is nine o’clock and we are drunk and hedonistic, but only inside the mirror. Through those comfortable blacks, I can see your insides. The tree outside is very tall and very old. The smell is a smell I want to keep with me forever and the Moon is shining bright. I have a couple of photos to prove it. The memory that I keep of this evening is very comfortable too. Those uncomfortable memories committed suicide and I stopped visiting them at the graveyard. Anger and Confusion are the tallest trees at this God’s acre.
Someone from Madagascar called me today. I blocked the number immediately. They most probably wanted to steal my identity and my money. No money. No identity. Now I am preparing an update to my identity. My memory. My cache. Myths about my character. Today is the most brutal day of the year - Valentine's Day. Hug your cow instead of - they say in India.
I don’t keep Valentine's cards. I keep letters and scraps of paper.
I keep shoe boxes filled with slides and old ink cartridges in brown colour. But most of the memories are on the surface of my skin.