The False True Story of My Travel in Eden: Prologue

A frightening false story brights into my hectic brain. And hence the lines run as follows, another lost soul in the eden of this world, yet another angel rizing from these ashes flawed. Perhaps the question isn’t whether or not this is a memoir. The question shouldn’t even be whether it is real or not, whether I’ve really been to those places, done those things, met those people. For certain, the question wouldn’t be about why things happened this way. Nothing spectacular: just a regular account of a young girl’s life. Truth or false? If only time could tell.

There are always times when people doubt themselves. When people lost themselves and chase after any concreteness provides by any type of an organization, may it be a religious cult, a sect, a business cooperation, a family guidance, a “social-consciousness”, a cultural-root, or best yet, a family’s wishes. We blindly walk the path too frightened to face our greatest fear, too frightened to face ourselves. Ultimately, we are bound to live all our days “pretending” to feel happy, yet at the same moments, always wondering the truth behind it all. When someone pokes at the truth, we shiver and we run back to the embrace of that “divinity” which introduced us to a masking joy. Some call it “positivity”, some call it “socialization”. Whatever the name may be, a lie is a lie, whichever form it takes, and a lost soul is a lost soul, whether it knows it or not. The individual lost to the communal desires, perhaps, is yet one of the most pathetic road for us youngsters to take. Only, how many people truly realizes these things? Only so few notes. In the end, so many envies those few who had opened their eyes and saw who they are and what they truly want.

Okay, life in Eden seems to have few to sing with this tune. However, if you were to point at the essence of the story, then perhaps you will see how related it is to the paragraph above. Unlike a person who ends up writing boringly similar travel stories as all the beautiful picture book you see laying in the bookstores. You know, the people who will spend all their time visiting all the tourist sites, talking about the greatness of the places they were at, the food they ate, the flowers, the sky, the same old hostel crowd, all happy and chirpy. My life in Eden is a travel book different. I don’t recall too much chirpiness, actually, more drunkness than that. The sky was indeed blue, and flowers indeed beautiful, however, with each city visited, each different sky told a different blue story, each flower spoke a different conflict in the past. The places I passed were great, but not because the tourist sites, but because the people walking path you in the middle of night, or the people who lived in a Bohemian world. My traveling stories sought for something behind the scenes, something down to earth, something like you and me, something of an adventure, and the more dangerous, the more interesting. My traveling stories are like that movie you once seen, where the guys winked at girls on the street, where girls are like guys as free.

Here’s an Edening story you must whisper no where else, for it is a quest for the ultimate truth of one’s life, the question in search of who one is, the quest to face one’s greatest fears, and the quest which will prove the soul of the heroine. The only question is, is it real? Or is it not? Just merely a story of the search for the truest context.