An Eye-Opening Open Letter to my Exasperating Memory


Each night, as I succumb to slumber, I dive into an endless abyss of thoughts, my mind. I watch words forming, pairing and getting know each other. I see it as a masterpiece. I then decide to post in it this blog. But the next morning, I forget about three fourths of what it was.

Why do you have to be so unreliable?

As I march through the notes perfectly in playing instruments, halfway through the piece, I forget the notes.

Why must you be so annoying?

Exams. I studied hard for this day, cramming every last bit of information and reviewing the notes. But when exams are actually knocking on my door, those notes, those information, those spent hours, I forget.

Why are you so frustrating?

I remind myself in every way for that homework or project due for tomorrow. But still, I forget.

Why do you have to be mean?

Those annoying shameful awkward moments, frequently popping into my mind when I don’t need them. I don’t forget.

Why are you malevolent?

Nightmares. Have the ability to kill you. I want it out. But you don’t allow it.

Why do you enjoy this?

Why?

What did I ever do to you?

Why are you so rude?

But still, thank you. You let me feel that I’m still human, that I’m not a flash drive. You might have these atrocities but I can still use you for reminiscence. Thank you.

 

Paranormal Activities?


Nah, it’s just you and your imaginative mind conjuring them, or is it?

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I am a Malevolent Monster! What Have I Done?


I enslaved my brain and I have become a cruel and brutal master.

I angrily forced and battered it to generate ideas.

It was totally blank for anything.

But his caring friend, Pity, persuaded me.

I gave it a chance.

It’s last chance.

It told me in its last dying breath to write its experience with me.

Guilt swapped places with Anger.

What have I done?


No it’s not a poem. Apparently for me, having mental block can be beneficial. Why? The post above.

If Journals Could Talk…


I stood there, immobilized by what my eyes registered. An input from an inanimate object particularly, a journal. Who wouldn’t freeze?

I had to say, it was smart, employing the words I jotted down ages ago, and assembling them into a letter addressed specifically for me, substituting its lack of speech. The letter wrote:

Dear Owner,

Why?

Why do you address my name as Diary? I am Steve.

Why do you assume that I care about your life events?  I am also not your specific someone or a parent to express your day to day story. I am merely a bundle of paper grouped together.

I am a choosy object. Unless you are famous for something, you have permission to use me as a biography.

Why do you settle your dirty hands upon my clean sheets?

Why do you expose your inner fears and vulnerabilities to me? I am open like all of my brethren books.

Why do you torture me? You stuff me into your bag, cramping me with all your belongings. I am a delicate book you abusive human.

I am infuriated.

Sincerely not yours,

Steve

And the realization came like a freight train. This was a notepad. This was a hard copy of a draft for my blog.

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