To Forget How To Write

16 April 2008

(an experiment on trying to do an english story-like monolouge thing for a story idea in my head)

I have forgotten how to write, I remember them telling me to remember your life and you would not have to think about what to write about, but I forgot how to remember. I do recall things and they flash in my head like cable channels on a non-cable ready TV, but I have forgotten to choose what to recall, its like I have lost the remote control and someone else is switching channels. There are spaces in my memory, if I were to write my autobiography now it would be unchronological, and I would have to sit and wait until something would eventually come to mind and I would remember.

Perhaps it is a sign of age, when you finally shed the childish idea of wanting to forget, like young writers write in their love songs. Maybe it is a sign of age that you never want to forget, not even the most painful fall or most crushing defeat.

Perhaps I can blame it on age, that I finally can quit worrying about age. Maybe if you are old enough like me you just wake-up every morning and actually believe there is a god to thank that all the weaknesses of your body hasn't suceeded in killing you yet. At my age, I am happy counting my life down to the very last hour, happy in all my 97 years, 49 weeks and three days of a miserable writer's life. At my age you'd be happy you were miserable, that would mean you lived.