Personal Narrative-Lost In Transition: A Girl's Attempt
Lost in Transition: A Girl’s Attempt to Remember the Past
“I can’t believe I’m doing this” I mutter into my wooly scarf. It’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon and the weather reads ten degrees Fahrenheit. I shift my weight and try to get into a more comfortable squatting position as the rocks dig into my boots. I look around; it’s a rather dreary day with no clouds in sight. I scribble in a notepad. Five minutes in and my hands are numb.
If you haven’t correctly guess that I am cramped up behind a bush near the front door of my house in the dead of January winter, well, that’s obviously what I’m doing at the moment. Duh. I’ll explain. It began approximately two weeks ago when a friend was back in town and insisted on catching up, or better known …show more content…
The fact I couldn’t remember my childhood was starting to nettle me. My childhood wasn’t horrible by all means; I recall playing outside with the neighborhood boys and making my parents exasperated by the messes I made. And there was the color pink. I really really liked pink. It’s my second day of observations and questions are starting to form in my head. What kind of person was Malenie as a child and when did she leave? This starting to sound lie an adventure. You know, kind of like a Harrison Ford- Indiana Jones feel. My objective: To unravel the mystery of the past while dodging misconceptions and possible danger (got to spice this up a little) to hopefully, in the end, answer all the generic existential questions of mine and quench the thirst of self-validation all in one neat package. This time I’m in the garage scrounging for anything that sparks nostalgia. Nothing much has changed for the last fifteen years except for the accumulation of dust particles. Something pink catches my eyes. It’s the bicycle I received when I was ten and is currently the dustiest thing in this garage. It’s the middle of January but that doesn’t stop
“I can’t believe I’m doing this” I mutter into my wooly scarf. It’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon and the weather reads ten degrees Fahrenheit. I shift my weight and try to get into a more comfortable squatting position as the rocks dig into my boots. I look around; it’s a rather dreary day with no clouds in sight. I scribble in a notepad. Five minutes in and my hands are numb.
If you haven’t correctly guess that I am cramped up behind a bush near the front door of my house in the dead of January winter, well, that’s obviously what I’m doing at the moment. Duh. I’ll explain. It began approximately two weeks ago when a friend was back in town and insisted on catching up, or better known …show more content…
The fact I couldn’t remember my childhood was starting to nettle me. My childhood wasn’t horrible by all means; I recall playing outside with the neighborhood boys and making my parents exasperated by the messes I made. And there was the color pink. I really really liked pink. It’s my second day of observations and questions are starting to form in my head. What kind of person was Malenie as a child and when did she leave? This starting to sound lie an adventure. You know, kind of like a Harrison Ford- Indiana Jones feel. My objective: To unravel the mystery of the past while dodging misconceptions and possible danger (got to spice this up a little) to hopefully, in the end, answer all the generic existential questions of mine and quench the thirst of self-validation all in one neat package. This time I’m in the garage scrounging for anything that sparks nostalgia. Nothing much has changed for the last fifteen years except for the accumulation of dust particles. Something pink catches my eyes. It’s the bicycle I received when I was ten and is currently the dustiest thing in this garage. It’s the middle of January but that doesn’t stop