A Memoir

Reading a memoir is like getting to know someone from the inside, out. You think their thoughts, feel their feelings, and live in their world. It’s consuming, even if it’s only for a brief few hours, a few pages at a time. Oftentimes the author experiences a large shift. A change in location, occupation, or taste. And as the person discovers this new view of the world, so do you; and you are a richer person for it. Their perspective co-mingles with yours, and another person, a complete stranger, has changed you.

Look at my life, look at its importance! An underlying neurotic layer screams from underneath. My perspective is different and unique!

Yet I can’t help but wonder how my life would measure up. Sitting here in my apartment—an instance in the makeup of an extraordinary life. I would write…

“As I sat in my apartment, living my average life, the sudden realization of what it all meant came crashing down. It all means nothing, unless you write it down. Who is to remember what happened in your century of life, a whisper of existence among billions? Who cares? It’s up to you to make it matter. So I sit here in my apartment, writing, and enjoying the sun streaming in, thankful for the hole in the roof my realization has caused.”

Suddenly, I see the light.

That time in kindergarten that boy spit in my face? A wet memory for my memoir. That Halloween I spent laying in bed with a twisted arm instead of going to the annual church Halloween festival? One painful page of my memoir. That time I laughed so hard I fell off the couch? Another memory. That time we kissed under the moonlight for the first time… and then I burped in your face? Another chapter.

None of it really matters in the end. But it matters now. It matters to you.