Hauting the narrative

or imposter syndrome

For many, memories are a blessing. A short-term currency that time threatens to rip away from their grasp any second. Each souvenir cherished like fragile wings, as if it were to fly away at a mere gust of wind. For me, memories are a choking curse. A constant reminder of what I’ve lost, of who I used to know. Each face an open book of conversation I cannot push under the rug, wormholes carved through a rotten fruit. The agony of remembering it all, the apathy to move on

Every day I walk through doors and am waterboarded with climpses of my past, some swell and some devastating. I slip through crowds and recognize people whose impact on my life is everlasting. Though my mind longs to reach out and reconnect with this past version of myself, the one they know, I simply bow my head and stride on. Somehow, though their names and stories occupy my soul’s book, I doubt mine figures in theirs.

It is a foreign concept to me that I leave a mark. I am used to evolving through the world, watching it shift around as I adapt. Only recently have I been made aware that my existence is noticed. What a silly thought it is, to think myself transparent. But apart from my family, I always believed people would be the same with or without me.

Some would call it impostor syndrome.

It never feels like anything I achieved is extraordinary. My looks always mundane, my grades always lower than someone else’s, my overcome struggles always easier to bear than it seems. So if none of my actions strike my own pride, why would they linger in someone’s thoughts?

One of the few things that truly convince me of the latter is the praise I get for my writing. Each smile and commentary a holy token I cherish. But this quest for validation is a maze that leads nowhere, and I am slowly going mad and losing track of the Ariadne thread tying me back to reality. My words are just those of any human being, and seeking adoration for the simple task of forming clever sentences will lead to my doom.

Perhaps this is how I shall realize the true impact I have on this world. Popularity is beyond my interest, I’d much rather know that the depth of my soul, translated into soliloquies, strock a string in someone’s internal machinery. If our minds are shelves stacked with memories, I intend to engrave my initials in each wooden pannel. Rather than a photo album, let my legacy be the typing sound of my keyboard through the quiet night. That is, I assume, the only interesting thing to remember me by.

I write.