A while back I’ve found my self the digital version ofΒ  ‘It’, a horror story by Stephen King. This is the first English book I’ve bought by myself, so there’s a nostalgic value about it too :). And let me tell you it really feels good to re-read the book we have. It gives you more insight to the story if I may say so πŸ™‚

The book it self in my own opinion is one of the best story by SK, the battle against the monster – which called as ‘It’ spans for more than two decades long. From the time the main characters still in childhood up until when they’re grow up twenty seven years later.

But it wasn’t the story itself that intriguing me on this book. It’s the epilogue that linger in my mind for quite sometime. In short the monster is slain by the heroes at the cost of two lives of the seven initial heroes. And they all lost their memories of their childhood, gradually. In time they didn’t even remember each other.

Can you imagine it ? losing all of your memory about your childhood. The friends, the game, the fight … everything. Not event the name of city where they grew up. This is the biggest lost of all by far in my opinion. May be not for the character in the story since, well it was really a nightmare and who don’t want to forget their nightmare. Furthermore they’re unaware of the condition – the lost of their childhood memory – so they can live it just fine.

But can you imagine one day you wake up and you realize that you don’t remember it all ? We might have already had that kind of experience though its quite partial – only certain detail that we forgotten – but what if we lost it all … not only the memories but also all the emotion related to that memories, the joy, the thrill, the exhiliration and the adrenaline rush when we’re about to do something dangerous (I’ve climb the roof of a warehouse about ten meters high once πŸ™‚ ). Can you imagine losing all of those thing, I know I can’t.

Fortunately Stephen King too can’t imagine such condition, so here’s what he wrote for the epiloque

He awakens from this dream unable to remember exactly what it was, or much at all beyond the simple fact that he has dreamed about being a child again. He touches his wife’s smooth back as she sleeps her warm sleep and dreams her own dreams; he thinks that it is good to be a child, but it is also good to be grownup and able to consider the mystery of childhood . . . its beliefs and desires. I will write about all of this one day, he thinks, and knows it’s just a dawn thought, an after-dreaming thought. But it’s nice to think so for awhile in the morning’s clean silence, to think that childhood has its own sweet secrets and confirms mortality, and that mortality defines all courage and love. To think that what has looked forward must also look back, and that each life makes its own imitation of immortality: a wheel.
Or so Bill Denbrough sometimes thinks on those early mornings after dreaming, when he almost remembers his childhood, and the friends with whom he shared it.

Yeah, even only in morning dream and to be forgotten, it’s nice to remember it all.

PS. All of my childhood friends I miss you all πŸ™‚


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