What do I do with memories?

 

The question itself sounds absurd.

 

I’ve browsed my diaries over and over, absorbing every word penned down.

I’ve walked through the same paths till the pavements are all worn out.

I’ve poked and dissected each and every of them, looking from every possible angle, justifying the acts I once did.

 

I could make a book out of my memories, or a drama. I could shout them to the world.

And yet I’d still find myself alone in this solitude.

 

There were the times when I used to write in colours. When every thought would be recorded, every feeling shared.

 

I’d taught myself not to cry since high school. I taught myself not to love. I taught myself not to trust. And I grew up with those merits.

 

Looking at it now, I was pessimist I guess. I believed nothing would last. And as hard as it is for me to admit this, I didn’t want to get hurt. I’d seen too many people crying over reasons unworthy of them.

I  had no desire to be in their shoes.

 

I was that person. I am still that person.

For once, my past and present has something to agree on.

 

A mask, when you wear it for too long, eventually becomes your flesh and blood. Such it is with me.

For now, my lack of emotion far surpasses my expectation. And I begin to fear it.

 

If there’re such things as resolutions, then I hope 2011 will warm my heart and cleanse my soul (I do think I’m becoming more and more evil as the days passed).

 

I want to squeal annoyingly at each passing cat (except for Baby of course). I want to swoon at baby pictures and say, “OMG LOOK SHE’S SO CUTE.”. I want to sympathise when a friend falls sick. I want to sincerely feel ukhwah.

 

I don’t want to be indifferent, as I am now.

 

Though the past is made of stone, the future is made of clay.

Mould it as you see fit.

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