Bus Ride to Boramae

Evening. Sunset. Around me gather and disperse the commuters- the students, the travelers, the aged. Out the window: fabric, sandals, small dogs, nose rings, girls and guys flirting, school uniforms, light reflecting off the buildings, shimmering gold.

Dresses on mannequins outside, hems lifting gently in the wind. Young men having a serious conversation over a cigarette, leaning on an old railing too close to the street. Construction, skinny trees, fountains, street food.

People having experiences, or searching for them. Bearing the crowds, rushing through the crowds- laughing, texting, carrying gifts, making choices. Leaving not-taken paths on the ground like discarded flyers.

For the time that you are alive, what will you do?

What do you want to be remembered for?

I don’t want to be remembered. I want to be forgotten. 

As long as I want to be remembered, I will always have those loved ones, those friends, or those strangers in mind, and I will have to be a certain way.

If I rejoice in one day being forgotten, I can be anything I want.

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