A storyteller’s salvation…..

I was 5.

Or was it 6? Or 7?

I don’t remember.

I don’t remember when I started to write.

I don’t remember a lot of things. Memories seemed to slip from my hand like sand. Memories seemed to fade as fast as they formed for me.

I don’t remember a lot of things but I remembered things I wrote down.

I hated writing.

But I also loved it.

I hated having to write down the list of things I had to do but i’d jump at the opportunity to write down how I feel about a person I cared about.

It was as if I knew that by writing things down, I was imbuing them with a significance that mere thoughts lacked.

No, I don’t want to remember a school assignment or a work deadline.

I want to remember the first time my heart physically ached and it wasn’t like anything I had ever felt. Even now, there’s nothing comparable to it.

I want to remember the first time I cried till my head hurt for a boy who didn’t like me.

I want to remember the bizarre stories I conjure in my head.

I want to remember the time I fell in love with myself.

I don’t remember a lot of things but I’ll always remember that writing saved my memories.