I have a very weak memory, one that keeps placing a shadow on my life's timeline, which means that I don't remember much of my own accord, unless poked to do so. It's often a blessing in disguise for I don't have to recall and cringe at all the embarrassing episodes which dwarf my life. Sometimes, this predicament makes me feel left out too, such as when well-meaning colleagues and siblings rapturously share their adventurous school-and-college tales while I can only listen in wonder and amazement, forgetting the treasure trove of joyful times I have had myself. However, there has always been this one memory that has never ever faded away from my remembrance, although I have most certainly wished for it to be eviscerated eternally. This memory perennially haunts me like the spectre of communism was described by Marx to haunt all of Europe. The scene enacts itself to a rousing reception in the theatre that is my mind and villainizes my imperfections; the words spoken spring alive and pinch my heart to strain it of all merriment in a snap. The perception of the hurt my actions occasioned bears a burden heavier that what my shoulders can lift or carry, drowning me in in a sombre river of guilt. I have only now come to acknowledge that this memory is a ghost whose thirst I must quench by confessing for my sins, so to say; and for that end and purpose, I write this an an obituary of my mistakes. I hope that by ascribing a fitting description to the events that transpired, I can set in stone the fallacies I committed and begin to atone for them bit-by-bit. I wish I could have addressed this directly in a letter (or text, for the sake of modernity) to you, but for me to disturb your tranquil now would be a grave trespass upon your peace of mind. Nevertheless, I really hope against all odds that, by some mischievous play of fortune, your eyes do come across this epistle.