#memory writing

[vexedsyndicate]

Term Coining Post - Memory Writing

Exomemoir

Noun - [eks-oh-mem-wahr]

A written record of (exo)memories from outside the current timeline that the body did not experience.

Pseudomemoir

Noun - [soo-doh-mem-wahr]

A written record of false (pseudo)memories that the body did not experience.

Metamemoir

Noun - [met-uh-mem-wahr]

A written record of memories of metaphysical or spiritual nature.

Credit to co-coiners Butterfly Houses & Morpho Collective!

Terminology Derived from...

Memoir - Noun

A written record of a person’s knowledge of events or of a person's own experiences.

Exo- - Prefix

Outside, outer.

Pseudo- Prefix

False.

Meta- - Prefix

1. Occurring later than or in succession to, after. 2. Situated behind or beyond. 3. Change, transformation

Other Sources Used

Pluralpedia - Exomemory

Pluralpedia - Pseudomemory

Pluralpedia - Metagenic

Pluralpedia - Spirigenic

Pluralpedia -Parogenic

[emetoselk]

Writing this down so my mind doesn't forget. I am 'Self-Medicating' and it is giving me some deep thoughts to think about. I was not much tempered by Zodi since he carried most of my aether and magic than what the others contributed towards. My aether storage was quite uncommon and rare, I do not think anyone had such an abundance as I did.

Hence, why Zodi was made more out of darkness. Black magic was my expertise, couldn't do any sort of other magic for the life of me.

I wasn't known for making creations either... I could do it, obviously but, I didn't see much use out of it other than when necessary with work and experiments. I sort of was used as a battery more that I think about it... I helped so many others that couldn't go pass a certain limit due to them being drained. I always offered my aether (even if I seemed like such a prick about it at first. I like to help but didn't really wish to bother most times.)

Being a prick about it I feel was justified... Imagine having tons of people always needing a bit from me but never really able to give anything back. It is tiring.

[deadloversleftalive]

A brief memory from my last days:

“Fuck, yes Daddy, like that…”

“No, wait…”

“Is everything okay?”

“I want to make love to you this time…”

“Oh…. Okay…”

And then he did, and it was wonderful. Just like when we first began.

I found out the next day he’d tried to betray me again. I promised myself then and there that I would never let anyone make love to me again. It wasn’t worth it, to expose myself and allow myself to be vulnerable, only to find out that it hurts.

And then I left, got raped, and decided that life would be easier than living in a world where the only person I wanted to love me could only do it after my being absent, and even then it seemed to be disingenuous; words never matched actions, sowing doubt and suspicion. Because at least if I’m married to my rapist, I never actually have to open up to feeling the pain of having my heart ripped out of my chest and ripped up over and over and over. I can just build a suit of armor around my heart, and live out the rest of my days nostalgic for the brief moments when I believed I was loved unconditionally.

[multiscribbler]

Recently decided to post what I consider to be funny or insightful memories that I want to have a written record of, so that I won’t lose them. It will help me practice storytelling, at least.

Plus I like to think I’m funny and I seek constant validation. Not even gonna sugarcoat that because pffft why else am I here?

And what are you here for? Entertainment?

Allow me to entertain you a bit, then.

[fufie-doop]

I'm making sure my application is great before I email it later, but I'm writing about my time at Morrisons.

And I've just remembered one of my favourite people there, even though he was only temp, since all the security guards were. I sadly don't remember his name, but I think he was Indian (by his accent and probably by his name). He was quite softly spoken and was always really polite. I spoke a lot to him at least once a shift, and I remember a few times when I'd stop and talk to him for ten minutes when I wasn't working. He wore glasses and always looked really neat and tidy for work.

But he worked there i think for about a year-ish before he was replaced or moved on, and he would just talk to everyone on the checkouts and around the store. Everyone was always pleasant towards him, and he was a really lovely guy.

I feel horrible I can't remember his name, but I remember what he looked like really clearly. It's not that I considered this man my friend, but one of those people you just know and there's just this type of 'understanding'.

I don't understand why your mind seems to wash over these memories, or good ones, unless you think about them often. But I think writing about this has helped revive a small collection of memories and tid-bits of conversation with the man.

At least now I've a written, albeit digital, piece about the security guard.