I’ve realized I love reading memoirs. And by chance, all memoirs I’ve read are written  by women. 

There is something so intricately intimate and refreshing at the same time to just let go of your life’s burdens by putting it out there. I always feel as if the writers were taking off layers of their lives that they’ve carried around for decades by penning it down. 

And its amazing how I can relate to all those different life stories out there. Different countries, cultures, families, experiences,yet at the end of it all, its like our lives are just similar inside there. 

And I want that. To write a memoir. To walk someone through my journey. It may not glitter, or be outstanding, maybe full of more pain and brokenness than is required for one lifetime, but the most important thing is that I lived. 

And if nothing else matters, then the fact that we live to see another day, is story-worthy by itself. We have so many dreams. And a lot of reality that at times leaves us wondering if our lives will ever be worth it. 

We walk this earth hoping for the best, at times trying to make lemonades out of lemons, other times wallowing in defeat and there comes a time, when all we want is a break from life. Just a few days off from our bodies, our families, our friends, our situations, our confused souls, our spirits and our hearts. We just want to be. 

Those are times when all those things and people in our lives become too much while still not being enough. When we crave for so much more yet all we desire at that point is a few seconds of nothingness. We desire to reach the mountain top but even a glimpse of the valley will be heaven for our tired existences. 

And reading those memoirs reminds me that at times, it gets better. But only for those who manage to get past their pasts. And for those of us with pasts so entangled with who we are, then getting to see a future without who we are today is a mirage. 

They let me see how our childhoods affect one’s entire life. And how dwelling on the apparently happiest moments of one’s life are at times what hinders us from a great future ahead. And if that’s not scary, then I don’t know what is. That to move head, you have to dissect and analyze a defining part of your life and for some of us, disown it completely. 

As I turn page after page of how other people’s lives panned out, I realize that if by the end of my life or at least at some significant boring time when I have lots of time in my hands, I end up being this frank on a piece of paper about my entire life; then I will have lived. 

And as I said, Living is all that matters to me right now. Because afterall, that is the only requirement for writing a memoir. Plus living well, or fulfillingly is a function of the condition of one’s mind. And for now, that is the one place I would rather not be. So I hope for a 100%, while waiting for the day I shall reach 0% to start that journey. 

But as for now, I feed my heart with memoirs. 

Read or know any memoir that piqued your interest?…kindly recommend it. 

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