Why I need a memory gap

Lately, more often than not, I hate myself because I remember so many things. Those little details that people often forget, well, they'll just occur to me at the most inconvenient time. (With that, I mean the usuals: idle time, lunch, sitting in front of the computer, daydream and looking to the right.) Sometimes I wonder why I can talk for hours about periods in my life that most usually consign to the trash bin because they're hurtful, or because there's just no space for it anymore. I never really thought of it much since.

When I was in second grade, for instance, the entire class had what I termed as a "ginger tea party" - well, that's how I described it when I wrote it down on my bond paper newspapers. The canteen had served up glasses of the warm stuff and gave it to all forty-something students, in preparation for choir duties for the third grade students who were undergoing their First Communion. All those plastic, apple green glasses that felt good to the touch.

Or, much more recently, I remember censoring out a swear word that I quoted on a blog entry. It was about Saliksik, or at least what Clarence later called as the event that made me the "highlight" of the recollection. Huey wrote something that I thought, with all my depression, summed up everything that happened (or at least gave an explanation for my bad mood that day). That it is useless to hide yourself and that it's asterisk asterisk asterisk asterisk. I only reversed the decision when I quoted Karla a few weeks ago, and I went back to the blog entry and wrote the four-letter word in its gritty glory. I even told NiƱa about it, through an elaborate online conversation that kills boredom.

It could be much more complicated. I claim to have forgotten, or technically repressed, every detail of my first three months in high school, although I still remember the very events that got me kicked out. I just don't really want to talk about it. In fact, I remember quite a few details - Regine, yes, I'm talking to you, or covering my face with my bag and disrupting English class in the process. (And it's the reason why I got a grade of 78 in that class. Very unlikely, huh?)

It could be worse, actually. I've got stories of stolen kisses, things I shouldn't be seeing, not-exactly-stalking in vacation spots, my dirty left hand, and girls getting amazed after seeing a National Bookstore branch at the Shangri-la Plaza. It all depends on the circumstance, really; most of the time I can laugh at the fact that I still know these things, but when the going gets tough, I just hope I wasn't like Chuck Bartowski.

Sometimes I actually wish I can force a memory gap. You know, just forget some things and never have to be reminded about them again, because the more you keep those thoughts in your head, the more you wish you could do something about it. All those details. You return to them precisely because you're not happy with where you are. Then again, I have a "memory gap goddess" for a friend, so this should be easy.

And your responses...

I think I need to have a memory gap sometimes too. HAHAHA. Wala lang. ;)

Blogger Paw11/21/2008     

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