Been reading old entries in this blog – my journal of memories ranging from the inane to the superlative. A strange experience is to read things you’ve written, and not even recognise your own writing, let alone your own memories. In the words of the famous Urkel, “Did I do that?”
I wonder then, it is just me, or is it everybody – so many Madeleine moments in my life, and unlikely that I will recall each and every one of them. Committing them to writing – measuring each moment and every scent in my words – doesn’t really help when I read them over years later and feel like they weren’t even mine. Except the ones that sear the heart. Those don’t ever need words to be recorded.
Like the female protagonist in that terrible pap of a film, “The Notebook,” my life reads like someone else’s, until a wisp of a phrase reminds me that it’s mine. So I should carry on. Perhaps one day I might even get old and forgetful.