Bookmark #386

We did not remember people in memories. We remembered them in an aftertaste. We remembered the last thing we felt, the last thing we tasted, and then it took over all memories. Anger made all memories red, and indifference made them all blue. This aftertaste, this colour, is what we remembered. It is what’s left forever. All good is forgotten if the last word is sour. All bitterness is gone if the last smile is sweet. When we think of them from that point on, we only remember the last thing we tasted. So many who cut me open are now lavender memories of walking together in crowded promenades with cups of coffee in our hands—love in our hearts.

My mind, my memory was a Pollock painting—a complex, intricate map of colour and emotion; the further you went, the more you saw. I could not know how I moved from one to another. I would be happy, and like how we walk too far over the edge sometimes, I’d realise I was immersed in sadness. I was happy a minute ago; I would ask myself: what happened? Nothing did. I walked too far. It was all there was to it. Memories were not files in a cabinet. They were a canvas of every emotion we’ve tasted before. In all my happiness was my sadness; in all my anger was my peace.

I asked my friends a long time ago: do you also think of a day detached from the current moment? Do you see it vividly like you see this day in front of you? They said they did not care too much for the past, and the little they did, they wanted to forget. I did not understand it, but I did not press. When people don’t want to talk about something, it’s best not to pry, lest they walk too far into the graveyard of what came before. I wondered, how could I forget the first taste of sweetness? And if I had to remember it, I would remember what came before and what came after. I would have to remember it all or nothing.

Everything that has happened before has caused everything that is happening now. Forgetting one to was to forget, to be unaware of the other. Perhaps, that is why people often feel lost. They remember too little; they are too busy forgetting.