Oh my. Well done, Armach! You've actually done it. Woohoo! I know how hard this must have been for you, this first stroke across the page. And don't even think about rubbing away that last sentence. It was fine. Really. Just trust me. Uh uh uh - stop it! Just remember, imperfect something-ness is better than perfect nothing-ness. Or something less hackneyed-sounding. Right? Right.
Remember middle school art classes? With that big white-bearded fellow? In my mind's ear (Is that a legitimate phrase? Let's say yes.), he spoke with a British accent and a bit of a lisp, but perhaps my memory just invented those extra quirks for comedic effect. But anyway.... the point was, there is little else as terrifying as a perfectly white canvas. And you, an incorrigible perfectionist, forced to wield a quivering paintbrush, its dripping ink threatening to vulgarly debase the virginal whiteness. My word, but you were a high-strung thing. (Were ? Ehem.)
So here it is. The first stroke. A long time coming.
Am I too young at 25 to say that I fear that my memory is being slowly eroded? But I do. I really do have the feeling that places and faces and sentiments are slowly melting into one amalgamous mess in my mind. A pretty one - like vibrantly colored crayons (except without turning pukey brown) - but an indistinguishable mess nonetheless. And that's rather a pity, I think.
Not to brag or anything, but the fact is, I've lived a very interesting, varied life. And this is not to say that I would consider it any more or less fascinating than anyone else's, because, truly, I do think that everyone has their own story to tell. But still.... A father in a touring Broadway musical. A childhood spent skipping merrily from one rented house to the next, each delightfully jam-packed with the toys and linens and photo albums of someone else's life. High school in Germany, at a rather chichi private international school where my classmates were the sons and daughters of big-time international businesspeople and diplomats and such. And now married to a diplomat of my own - a Japanese one - and working at a major newspaper company in Tokyo. With the hubby in DC for a year on a super-special top-secret mission (Oh dear! I've said too much already.).
I tried at one point to keep a diary - it had a picture of two frolicking kittens on the cover and a heart-shaped lock and key, and each entry was scrawled in excruciatingly tiny writing over at least 10 pages. But laziness/perfectionism (a fine line) quickly saw that little diary relegated to some dusty closet corner.
But this isn't a diary. It's something else, I think. Let's just see what happens, shall we? (Ewwww, that sounded so precious. I'm really not that full of it. Really, I'm not. I promise.)
