Bookmark #658

A while back, someone asked me if I realised how these words are a de facto archive for all who are related to me, now and forever, in whatever way, in whatever year. They asked me if it had crossed my mind. And I told them like I have to countless people before—where countless is hyperbole replacing my laziness to keep a count—that it is the only thought on my mind for most of these crumbs of my days devoured completely. People are bound to leave something behind—I just happen to have a unique say in the matter of “what”, and even then, there is little uniqueness in this activity.

So many leave journals behind, some get bound into a book, and a few are read by enough people for anyone to remember anything. For all the great souls to have lived, thousands have died nameless, remembered only by those they left behind, if they bothered to reminisce. Besides that, all of this is futile. So, without wasting many words when people ask me this, I tell them: yes, it is a thought that is always on my mind, and it is unnecessary. I could live my days perfectly, with the same zeal and the same conversations, even if I did not write these words. It is a habit, a choice, and from the little I know about choices: no one but the person making them carries any justification for them. The rest of us are almost always left in wonder and awe, asking: why? And from what I know about conversation, no one ever truly answers the questions people have for them.

When I ask anyone why they made a certain decision at some point in their life, they often jump into pleading not guilty for a crime I did not insinuate or even suggest. They begin to relay a defence for no accusation, no question. And then, they start justifying it. It always makes me curious. Then, I look at them with shock, hidden by the facade and smile of my faux understanding, all the while thinking: who are you trying to convince if not yourself? Then, someone asks me the same question about these words, and it occurs to me that a writer can only comment on the world because they live in it—complete with all the idiosyncrasies and oddities that plague those they comment on. We rally to convince ourselves through others.

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