When Forgetting is a Memory
On the day I finally forget, I know what will happen: I will remember
Every day, I forget to forget you.
How many days have passed?
I trace the days on the walls, absently, so that time won’t lose me.
But perhaps I seek to lose myself in the past and find you. This time, I hope to forget and feel you for the first time.
In that past, I have not yet changed. I am not yet haunted by the alarms of your name in my mind.
In that past, I am still myself.
Now, I am a warning of your existence.
I have nothing left to write about you.
All the combinations of words that remind me of who you are have run out.
Now, I am left only to feel them, one by one, until they no longer make sense.
And then, on that day, I will lie down in the silence; what hurts to remember today is no longer felt.
When that day comes, I will realize that I have forgotten you.
And I will remember.
Note: Sometimes we write to exhaust the memory until it has no choice but to leave us alone. These two fragments are about that exhaustion. They are for anyone who is still caught between the rush and the letting go.
Lately, I’ve been experimenting with this more concise, fragmented style. Let me know what you think! I also intend to publish more regularly, letting the words flow without “curating” or over-editing them as much as I used to.
You can now find these pieces in a dedicated tag called Fragments. :)
“I forget to forget you” and “on the day I finally forget, I will remember” feel like the same thought seen from opposite sides of time. The fragmentation really suits that loop
Last year I wrote my last journal entry about an old friend. It doesn’t hurt anymore now that I’ve said all that I needed to. It was like a fresh breath. Now remembering is different and has larger spaces between.
This made me think about that journey a lot.