Memories that Talk!

Okay! I am writing every day — which is a good thing. But I am not publishing every day — which is, again, a good thing!

When I write here, I make it a point to write unapologetically for 15–20 minutes and then come back and read and give the piece a title! Freewriting? Yes.

I don’t sit to write with a purpose or intention of exploring any burning topic or emotional cause but just one motivation — let my emotions flow. I think I am doing a good job. *pats self*

I don’t have many memories of the last 15 years of my life. Tough to imagine a 30-year-old saying that? Of course, it is! I live in a world where 30's are the new 20’s. I am as confused as I was in my 20’s — just the matters in which I feel lost have become more intense and defining.

When I say I don’t have many memories, I don’t mean I don’t remember ANYTHING but I have more vibrant memories from my childhood and from the onset of adulthood. While I am still figuring out if I suffer from any kind of memory loss, I am also constantly evaluating my life as it was. Did I undergo any trauma? Did my family put me through a lot of emotional stress when I was young? What happened to me in the second decade of my life that I have conveniently decided to not to remember those things at all?

I sat down yesterday night — well, way past midnight, actually — to think about my tryst with my screwed up memories. The first thing I think about? I have vibrant memories of my father smoking cigarettes, white and slender with a mustard coloured filter, and thinking about his life while he sipped a cup of tea along with his cigarette. And when do I think about it? While I lit my own.

Now, I am not addicted to smoking. I know it’s harmful and my father gave up smoking almost 15 years ago. He did it for us — me and my sister. And probably due to the fear of early death — he lost his two siblings, in their 40s, because of lung cancer pertaining to smoking. But I still enjoy smoking because they take me back to the time when I used to sit with my father, smoking his daily dosage. I am not intending that it made him look cool. But it made him look, well, you know, DAD!

Is it a coincidence that of all the various flavours and strength of cigarettes that great America has to offer, I choose the one which looks similar to the ones my father used to smoke? I think NOT.

I miss my father. He is very much alive. I haven’t seen him for more than a year now. And I suffer from major separation anxiety too. But when I introspect, I realize that I miss my father — the one who would burn his worries with tobacco rolled in filter paper and strongly live his life with his 10-year-old carefree daughter. Well, he deserves every bit of praise for keeping my family carefree.

I am so lost when I see him struggle to do normal activities and relying on people to get his work done. I am not used to seeing a helpless father. It kills me every day. But who am I to question the phenomenon called the cycle of life?

I do these conversations with my memories to understand my present-day mental state. I do that a lot. I find it healthy to identify the things which break me today. I don’t want to keep them bottled up.

I cry when my memories do the talking and make me see things which I wouldn’t otherwise. And when I write these feelings down? I feel relieved.

As I said, write as no one is reading. Let your emotions flow like water.

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