Sometimes I want to pack up my stuff and leave this place. I want to run away to a different city. I want to take a train for hours. I want to go somewhere I have never been before. I want to enjoy the feeling of being anonymous to the strangers I will encounter. I want to take snapshots of the new memories that will form. I want to burn those photographs. I want to watch them disintegrate. I want to observe the stories ignite my recollection. I want to see flash fiction become the new storybook that I will inhabit. I want the ink to bleed through the book pages. I want the words to drown in the tears. I want to be left alone without any worries for trivial things or any care for the world. I want to feel lonely. I want spontaneity to guide me through the places I will peregrinate to. I want to become infatuated with wanderlust. I want to become a lost star that is floating in the atmosphere. I want to neglect my surroundings. I want to witness the paint scrape off the walls of this scenery. I want to dissolve into stardust. I want the nightscape to conceal me. Sometimes I want to be forgotten.

I do not write because I want to escape reality. I write because I need to record what I know and feel. If I do not do this, then I fear the possibility of forgetting any significant and trivial events that occur daily in my life. I have forgotten so many memories from my childhood, and it takes me a while to dig so deeply into my past to search for a moment that has held onto such felicity. I can easily recall when I have felt so much sorrow, but it is difficult for me to recall what happiness is. I do not strive to be happy; I strive to remember.