A wild snake snaked its way into my backyard and curled on the flowerpot gifted by my
grandmother. The glittering black cubes on its tube-like body and the sheer grace of the creature
mesmerized me. For a second, I tried to recall what I had eaten for breakfast. It was probably the
same thing that I had been eating for the past few months, or probably today I tried something
different. I can’t remember. My grandmother used to say I eat as I dream. I don’t really concur.
          My memory has been feeble ever since that flower from the flowerpot bloomed in my
backyard. Is the flower to blame then, for my temporary amnesia? I do remember the last time I
walked alone on the streets, hoping to catch a random breath from a stranger. One stray breath
from a thousand miles away did reach me, oh, but I can’t remember how it felt anymore.
          What I do remember is reading a book with a torn last page. I longed to discover why the
main character killed himself. But why would it matter? Or is it better that I never know what
happened to him? I thought of asking the snake once, but I didn’t want it to be scared and slither
away. It looks just right where it is. Curled around my flower pot, moving uncomfortably, not
quite finding the right place to adjust. What’s its purpose, I wondered? Or is it the stranger I stole
a breath from that I was thinking about?
          A thousand new thoughts emigrate into my mind every day, and a thousand others are
massacred. This morning, a snake occupied my prefrontal cortex, and I can’t let it go. I want to
think of other things. I want to think of the girl I am in love with, and I want to think of my dead

grandmother, whose ghost I see sitting on my computer table sometimes, staring right into my
eyes as I write, perhaps waiting for an apology for something I can’t remember.
          Remembrance is a very dangerous thing; it binds your feet to a pole and never lets you
take the next step. In a way, my amnesia is a good thing. I don’t remember things I could never
forget anymore, and this is what my grandmother told me life was like, if I remember correctly.
The world is good as it is. If the flowerpots are colonized by snakes, it’s good only; it should
never leave.
          As I glare at the snake, sitting on my comfy chair in my backyard, I try to peek into the
future sometimes. Amnesia renders one unable to form new memories, but what about the
future? Would you say thinking about the future is also creating new memories in its own
peculiar way? Or am I finally losing my consciousness and becoming one with this snake?
          My grandmother’s flowerpot is staring at me from underneath the snake, begging for
help. I light my cigarette and smoke the memories of my grandmother away. And now, a
flowerpot is just a flowerpot.