The Story of I: Of Gas Stations and Oblivion


I remind myself of parks in nearly abandoned towns, of gas stations too deep into the countryside.

Things you need, but not really.


Someone once told me that they’ll remember me as the girl whose idea of fun was solving Rubik’s cubes and Sudoku puzzles. Like somehow, being slightly uncommon in the vast multitude of beings would somehow make me less susceptible to oblivion.

Yet, don’t we all have these people in our lives?

The ones who dance like the stage is on fire, and write like their blood is etched with poetry, some who speak with the eloquence of a knight or sing with the voice of an angel. Look around, and you will find one of them, dashing away from the mediocrity enveloping the rest.

There are too many of us ‘different’, to ever be rare. I see people deifying the different ones, telling them that their tears are Swarovski and their smile is encased with pearls. But does it matter how you remember me, if you remember me as often as you remember your next door neighbour back in eighth grade? We will never be the Madonnas or Cleopatras of the world. We are just destined to be us, spiraling into oblivion as the day proceeds.


I wonder if one day, when my car runs out of gas a thousand miles away from the city, shall I recognize my worth.


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The Story of I

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