A cold wind blowing

I fear her. What she may be, and what she may do. I never spoke with any like her.

I dreamt of Veera a couple of days back, telling me that it was a waste to quit school. "Once in a long while, someone hits a standard this high, but you choose to quit." He seemed excessively annoyed about that. Or exasperated, shall we say. Insisted on keeping me on some program, but I stubbornly refused to have anything else to do with school.

I woke up a while later, and didn't think much of the dream. Went to work, where I had the strongest sense of deja vu that I've had in a really long time. It was like I'd seen the store a long time ago, though it is logically impossible, having never stepped foot in Topman's storage space before that very moment. I remembered I'd searched for something, and failed to find it. I remembered the stacks of jeans, haphazardly stacked according to color and design. I remembered the pathetic attempt at organization, with tags down the sides of the shelves. I remembered the bags stacked close to the ceiling. I remembered being there, before.

Which led me to think about our memory. So much happens in a lifetime. Given our active and often uninhibited imagination, in combination with our very limited memory, how much of our recollections really took place? We all have childhood tales to tell. It is the picture of bliss , to sit next to a warm fire, telling these tales with reverence, basking in the glow of yesteryears (and melodrama). Yet, when we are old and frail, which of us is going to truly remember having lived through those memories we so lovingly cherish? We would remember thinking, remembering and sharing these stories, at the same time grinning inwardly, but would we remember living them?

That's a scary thought if there were ever any. When I'm old and frail, will I remember wearing dragonfly slippers to work on my first day at Topman? Will I remember having almost died from numbing, toe-curling pain? Will I remember the great relief when they transferred the ultimate gay? Will I remember the joy of seeing good friends at the end of a particularly gruelling day? How much is real, and how much would my mind make up to fill in the gaps between the years?

Often, as I speak of childhood (hurried as it may have been, but cherished nonetheless), Mom claims none of it ever happened. But how would she know, how can she be so certain? They're entirely personal, till I choose to tell. She couldn't possibly have been around every second to watch me. So much would be different if she had been.

Shrug. Mindless ramblings. The makings of a true lunatic.

AnRu reminisced at 8:36:00 PM.