I just read this article by a documentary filmmaker about her new project reconstructing a life. She had read in the newspaper about a woman whose body was discovered three years after she had died. She was so disturbed that no one remembered the woman, even if all her friends later recalled her to be bubbly and full of life.
It's quite disturbing that in this super-connected wired world, people can still slip through the cracks and be forgotten. It hits a nerve with me because I've had so many times when a person's name comes to me, and I don't do anything in order to get in touch. So many times, I remember you and the time I lived in your house during high school, but I've only connected with you a couple of times on Friendster.
Are you well? Do you have your own family now? Are you still in architecture? Do you still follow Jessica Zafra?
I still have my tattered copy of the Twisted Menace. Every time I crack it open, I think of you and our obsession with her snarkily brilliant writing. When she submitted a picture she took to the Hot Guys Reading Books tumblr, I squealed. I also imagined the squealing if we'd browsed the blog together.
I miss talking and squealing with you. I miss your beautiful handwriting. I remember when I copied how you did your small a's, and I did all my notes and letters and journal writing with the stylized a's. I think you also taught me how you did your small s's.
Do you still write the same way? I write differently now as time has seen my cursive deteriorate. I'm a bit hypocritical, 'no? For imagining that things would remain the same when I haven't. In some ways, I've changed, but I hope you'd still recognize the same old me.
Yours---
