third day in a row i open the page, and stare blankly.
where is that idea that sprung to mind at the Tadamond roundabout signal?
where is that thought that crept in, during the long wait outside the pool?
where is that really funny comment i made to myself, while enduring a phenomenally boring conversation with that self-obsessed little pr***!
why do all the words flee when i decide to put it down.
it is at times like this, when my memory is a blank that i really get scared… is this the beginning of something… that obsession of mine all over again.
would i one day, like Elhanan in Elie Wiesel’s Forgotten, just cease to remember mid-sentence?

ps: btw, found the book to be a tad boring. well, more than a tad actually! do think the Nobel committee has a bunch of very depressed and unhappy men.


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