Memories
“Those are not MY memories,” said the girl when someone asks her how she could bear to come to her ancestral home in Berlin, “after all they’ve done to your family here”. She’s a Jew visiting from Israel. I put my pen down and stared for a whole minute at my “memories” that I was trying to fill in a worn out journal; one that I’ve been struggling to keep up with in the recent past. One that nobody would ever read again- not even myself. I used to share stories on this blog a while ago. I thought they’d make me sound cool and smart, I guess. It’s been over 3 years since I wrote something not on slides and not for work, particularly in this blog. There was a story I started writing, but never saw the light of day, because I didn’t like the climax. Yes, the very climax that I wrote myself. So I printed myself a copy, tore up the last chapter and abandoned the rest of the pages in a dark corner somewhere. These 3 years have been eventful: I had stuck with one job all along,