My Hidden Lives // Prose

58. about voluntary dementia


Ten years from now, I will tell you a story about us . I’ll say –

„There was this girl once, and she was crazy in love with this guy. He thought she was kind of cute, so he gave it a shot. He spent a month or so with her and her crazy family in their too-small apartment. They drank red wine every evening, more often than not drinking far too much. They walked around town holding sweaty hands and drank tea in rustic cafes, smiling at each other from across tables. They talked about Nietzsche and Fromm and sometimes, about whether double chocolate chip cookies were better than the regular kind. The boy liked staying in, and the girl liked going out so they compromised by opening the windows while watching  foreign films in her room.  One day, hours after midnight, they were passing through a park where a photographer was working. He took a picture of them and framed it on a wall of a small gallery. They became a part of history.“

„What a great story, I wish we knew what happened to them,“ you’ll musingly reply.

„Oh, they probably forgot all about it. Only strangers remember them now.“

„That’s very sad.“

„It is,“ I’ll agree.

You’re older than me. I will be kind and not remind you, when you forget us.



You think, therefore you are.

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