I suppose I’ve always enjoyed experimental writing, if filling out classmates’ yearbooks since elementary school is considered “writing.”
I did the same thing in high school, as an attempt to differentiate myself in my fellow 18-year-old classmates’ future memories, particularly those I’d want to be remembered by.
Such as this one girlfriend of mine.
We were really good friends since first year of middle school, as a matter of fact.
We eventually drifted apart, even though we ended up attending the same high school.
…
Perhaps she’s changed after all these years?
…
November 2007, I traveled to New York City for the first time.
One late fall evening, I paced along the East River, mesmerized by the sublime beauty of Brooklyn Bridge. An ephemeral instance of bliss and peacefulness.
A young couple was kissing on the bank where land ends and water begins, with the bridge behind them, dominating the scene with its sheer scale without disturbing the magnificent moment of the kiss.
Fall breeze brushed against my cheek, and their hair. It was a dreamlike evening.
I turned 18 years old, and had just been living in the US for three months. I was in the state of total confusion, and wasn’t able to hear anything or anyone in this chaos of senseless noises.
Carefully observing them, I thought my life would be complete if that ever happened to me.
April 2014, I am in San Francisco, kissing in front of the Bay.
On the bank where land ends and water begins, with the Bay Bridge behind us, and the cold wind on a typical San Francisco night attacking my back.
My life is far, far from complete.
