Memoirs of an Amnesiac

There is a sudden pang of pain within. One that a while ago I had craved. One that I had nostalgic feelings about. One that I would exchange precious sleeping luxuries with. One that brings me to write this nonsense post. And one that I had uselessly brought you to read.

I miss crying. I miss heart-wrenching scenes where lovers had to bid goodbye to a love that should never be. Head to head, they deliver their spiels of love, adoration, and devotion, reflective of lines that I find myself repeating in moments when I just feel like it. (And the wetter they are during the rain scenes, the more dramatic). Episodes of mothers and children being separated at war or even at a circumstance beyond their control always make my lachrymal glands bleed on their own accord, as if I have been a mother myself or I will have to be separated from my mother. Somehow movies do not seem to affect me, even as while I'm writing this, I hear screams from a lady, echoing throughout our usually quiet neighborhood. Screams of disappointment marred by family rifts can be heard and yet my brain continues to wander and long for some form of sentimentality.

I badly needed one, even when there is no need to. I can sacrifice wasting my neurons on it. These are days when I feel like my androgens somehow engulfed my estrogens (Scientifically, I don't even know if this is possible.) and I'm overwhelmed by my own need for histrionics.

The screaming ends now. And yet my need for sentimentality and heavy emotionalism remains...