Writing My Story However It Comes Out

I keep not writing things that I want to write, because I know that to write about these things from A to Z, to really explain my ideas, to lay out my thinking comprehensively, it will take one, two, or three hours. So I have decided fuck it. Fuck being comprehensive, and fuck blogging etiquette. I will write my thoughts in as disorganized a fashion as I please, as short as I please.

A couple of days ago I met a guy at an event, and we talked for a couple of hours after. “You have a lot of great stories,” he said. “You should write them down.”

I actually feel that my stories are slipping away. Time is passing, I’m not writing them down, and I am forgetting details.

Memory was one of the most important things to me in my life. I remember when I was six years old, I was standing in the doorway of my sister’s side of the room, facing the hallway, concerned about the fact that people seemed to forget things as they got older.

What if I forget things? I asked myself. I will remember remembering, I answered.