Undocumented time
This is just another heart of a broken story, of the estranged time.
I’ve never gotten used to journaling, and I am still clumsy with words that attempt to transcribe the savagery of the mundane--the unbearable tumult of a terrestrial life.
Ever since that bane of her life (I wish I could have put it differently, but no other words suffice), I have not yet stopped writing--some about fictions that I’ve read, films that I’ve watched, life by itself, or just the rumbles of a fractured mind.
“I look at life from both sides now. From win and lose, and still somehow, it’s life’s illusion I recall. I really don’t know life, at all.” The mystery of living eclipsed my former self, one that was young and unafraid. Now, fear has become a habit. The Sword of Damocles dangles in the air.
This introduction may have been too uncloaked, speaking of vulnerability and grief, or too cliche, dwelling on worn-out subjects of bewilderment and loss. A self-satisfaction. A solitary, conspicuous lament.
I guess so. But I could not have survived without writing, without language that could hold the door of those violent memories ajar. So I can peek inside, and not forget.
To quote Pessoa, I begin because I don't have the strength to think; I finish because I don't have the courage to quit. This book is my cowardice.
I hope you may find something in the callow literature I composed. Something beautiful, something beating, alive in the runnel of a sneak catastrophe.
Through writing, I am retaining something for her, a time in which our century refuses its remembrance. To not let it slip away, to not let it recede into the vast anonymity of a generation.