Going Down The Memory Lane

I do not do this willingly, oftentimes. Remembering the past is something that happens because I had, in my past self, left behind mementos for my present self to come across. Precariously. Because even the smallest things can trigger memories that do not belong—should never have belonged.

Today I was cleaning out my inbox, per usual, when I saw that I had a lot of drafts just sitting there. I opened them up one by one, trying to see if there were any I could delete. And of course, there were those I had previously mentioned in another cleaning-out-inbox moment, but there were other things too. Stories from once upon a time. Fragments of words—sentences—thoughts. Things I used to believe in. And maybe still do.

And a few recurring themes.

Confusion is one of them. I always write when I am confused. Count this as one of those times. I write about loss, and about getting lost. I write about regrets, and trying not to regret. Sometimes, I write about death. Usually I just imply it. I write about things I do not understand but wish I understood.

I write about real life, I just had never quite noticed it. I write about real life packaged in shiny wrapping paper made up of lies. Freshly embellished. Until all of the rough edges are hidden, and all of the raw emotions are curtailed, and all that is left is a neatly polished piece that is faintly reminiscent of reality.

Writing is just as much a lie as it is a reflection on the truth. And I must say, I relish in the lying as much as I do the truth-telling. It, in its own magical way, protects me from reality. So I write. A lot. In my continuous search for that perfect "real" that is not "reality." A safeguard.

But I am rambling. Digressing into the uncharted waters of my mind. I must have written about that as well.

. . .

This because I am not the perfect person I think a part of me envisioned myself to be. The other part scoffs at perfection. But none of that matters now.

I think what matters now is: I'm doing this for all the wrong reasons. Again.

If there ever was a first time to begin with. And I was recently asked whether I would rather all of it never existed, this funny business with the past. Would I? I have asked myself that. Oblivion. Forget this ridiculous dream so as to forget the torturous crushing of hope. I think it can be boiled down to that.

But there is no what if? in this world. Another reason I dislike the past.

. . .

Paradoxical, of course, because I am dredging up the past with this.

. . .

Allie's All About Apathy (part II)

My first memory of Ciel was of his piercing red eyes. It was my favorite memory of him too, because in that memory he was calm. Solemn, yes, but not annoyed. I must have been four then, and he seven. We were in the study, and Ciel was writing something on the parchment laid out on the desk. I was too short for the chair and could not see what he was writing, so I asked him.

"None of your concern," he said, but it was without animosity. It was merely a response meant to stop me from distracting him. Later on, he would add the more biting words, but for now, he had not donned the cruelty children often had.

And it must have been this time when Allison Saint-Cross entered the study, his hands stuck in his pockets. Over the years, he and Ciel would often meet to discuss things that came with monetary value but was more often measured in lives and livelihoods. But for now, they were only friends.

If even that.

Allison saw me and said, "He's crazy, that brat." He was a few years older than Ciel, and had thought he earned the right to call him nicknames. Ciel looked up and frowned.

And it was now that I wondered why I did not have any memories of Ciel before this particular moment. It did not seem like a memorable occasion, nor was it any natural time for Ciel to enter my life. He was just there, and I had just accepted him into my life, even if he had never accepted me into his life.

When I climbed down the mountain and got to Bayon Street, I asked a few people if they knew of a store that sold wishes. They all pointed me down the street, where I found a small two-story house juxtaposed with the towering marble buildings so typical of Anna Marie. He was there already, waiting for me.

Allison Saint-Cross still had his dazzling green eyes, although he had grown his hair out longer, and it now trailed in wispy black strands down his head. He held out his hand and bowed slightly, so that his tall frame stretched and crinkled his shirt. He had the expression of a bitter man who refused to accept defeat. An expression I must have mirrored, because he laughed when he saw me.