I've mentioned to a few people lately that I have a disturbing memory. I don't know that that's entirely accurate, but it is true that I have a tendency to remember trivialities other people soon forget. I don't say "trivialities" with a mocking tone, no, I say it honestly, for they are things that well, really carry no weight, and are things that you wouldn't expect to have an impact on anyone's mind. I can pick out events from as little as when I was four or five years old that simply do not mean anything. They are just events, the small things which do just happen, which do not affect you at all. It's like remembering eating lunch on one ordinary day in an ordinary week/month/year. Something that just happens. I suppose we could get into the argument of whether anything has any meaning in this world, but that's a topic for another day, and another post altogether.

Having gotten my digression out of the way, let me approach the subject of this post. In a Dylan documentary I saw a while back (not a particularly brilliant one, yet not a particularly bad one), I remember one throwaway line about Dylan starting to write songs at furious pace (I'm paraphrasing, as always). I sort of feel like that now; I am possessed by the urge to write, write, write, which is great, because it's something I used to be passionate about a long time ago. It's nice to revisit it now, at a time when I feel like everything is slipping away. I suppose this passion has been rekindled when I started posting stories and poems from the past, they proved to be oddly inspiring, even though they were not good. I suppose it's because I was inspired to do better now that I'm supposed to be older and wiser.

I don't have another piece of writing for you just yet (I hear you breathe a sigh of relief..), but I do have another story from the past, although it's not one of my best. I think it was just a rough draft for the real story, but unfortunately I can't find the real one. There was another one I distinctly remember writing that was in a similar vein, but again, I can't find it. A shame, really, because it's again something that was sort of a symbol of my life two years ago. Ah, precious memories.

Once again, this is just fiction, nothing like this really happened, and I've never really thought like this. Except for one thing, but I'll tell you about that after the story. Anyway, here we go:

---

Her face had changed beyond recognition. I was stunned, but mustered "..You...look just the same!". I know there's nothing surprising; God forbid she should be exactly as I recalled hair in a ponytail, with a beaming smile that greeted me everytime, and of course those distinctive fingers.

"So what do you do now?", I asked, as we sat down to a cup of coffee. She had two cups and I my usual one. Day in, day out, one. You could identify me as the person sitting everyday at the same time, in the same coffee shop, drinking one cup of coffee. I (rather rudely) gazed into the cup as I mused over how monotonous it was, while she told me what she did. "Vice president...big firm...good pay". Truth be told, it sounded quite boring. Well, not boring, but, I suppose, static.

I remember a girl who used to tell me she would become a philosopher. Odd? Perhaps, but she always used to be fascinated by Plato and Socrates. She would amusedly recount their paradoxes, and stand back with satisfaction as I desperately tried to reject her arguments. I could tell that she really loved it.

"That was just a flight of fancy", she said. "I mean, come on. A philosopher? It's not like you exactly rake up enough to secure your future; I mean, you just sit around thinking about things. And then you call that work. I don't care if my notions of existence are flawed and archaic. I just want to survive in this world.

I politely nodded, glancing occasionally at her trim, officious hair and her still flawless, yet somehow stiff, fingers. And then I looked at her again. Then, I realized that she hadn't just changed physically.

She left, I suppose a bit abashed after I told her I was a philosopher. I guess all those times made me interested in it. It did seem a lot more interesting than my initial dream of working in a firm.

---

Hmm not too good, is it? For one, the ending seems too forced I think. The only bit that's really drawn from personal experience is the thing about becoming a philosopher. Believe it or not, I once thought rather seriously about taking up philosophy, if not as a major then at least as a side interest. Not because I felt I had any talent of course - no, my writings on pseudo-intellectual topics confirm this. No, it was because there was a point when I was truly interested in such subjects. I think I still am, but I have somehow lost the will to pursue the things I like. Maybe I'll bore you later by talking about that. But first, I simply have to find the other story, it's far too important to lose.