Wednesday, July 21, 2004


I wrote a few stories back in 2000 (12 to be exact). I used to write one at the end of every month except for December. They are incoherent yet linked because in many ways they're offshoots of my own every day experiences. I just made some modifications or added a few things here and there. I find that, essentially, even life is just a story. The difference between something written on a paper (or typed in a wordprocessor) is that the story called Life is happening all around me even as I type right now. On the other hand, these stories that we have in our minds might be extensions of the main plot but they're almost always in our heads. Even sometimes, recalls are stories fabricated by people to make them interesting for the listeners or readers. Somehow, sometimes even history seems like that...
The one for December was written all over the year so it might be the one, which is most incoherent (though it's name might suggest otherwise). I don't think that I need coherence to put my point across. The point of writing is sometimes to unburden oneself and at times to burden the reader. The diary in which I had been writing down my thoughts (and notes) had been issued by some French company, thus the French names. That is not much of a reason. I guess it was more like I found some secret titles in those names.
I thought I'd put them up on my blog. At least just for populating it *laughs* because I think I'm almost out of fresh things to say. Nowadays, there's just one thing on my mind and that's how I'm going to continue with my education sans money. Phew! It's making me sad. Guess on with the stories then.

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