Oh Memory, Why Do You Torture Me So?

I've been blessed with amazing memory, that works in unique ways. No, I don't memorise or remember everything, but some things stand out.

I can remember the first time I talked to Eli, back in 2000. It was near the canteen, on these odd stone chairs during lunch.

The time I got a temporary glittery tattoo on my arm. In secret.

The last day at National Service.

That first night in college.

The first time I talked to Mamon, front row in a class in CS2.

That time a group of us watched UP during Ramadhan, before having iftar together eating otak otak (fish wrapped in leaves and grilled on charcoal).

The panic that buried itself in me the day before my Survival Modelling final. And the way I cried in the shower and on the phone to Mama because of that. (Got an A- for it, overreaction much?)

Coffee date.

You see how I tend to remember experiences, more than what I've read.

Its an interesting parlour trick to wow your friends and family. But there is a dark side to it, as usual.

Like the fact that I remember in 6 days, it will be a year I found myself talking to you and god, falling down into that pit full of snakes, that sparkled with promise from the top.

And all the other things that I realise, would make me seem creepy if I were to share it here.

Perhaps, to celebrate a year after sipping on perfection I shall arrange everything to how it was, a tremble in the air as I wait. Perhaps. Maybe. Possible.