Bookmark #418

The summer breeze has brought with it a memory I thought I had let go of. It landed softly on the balcony as I stood to sip coffee and look at the hills, in the perfect repetition of all my days. I did not know what to make of it. I wondered how it was curious we could not let things go forever. They come back, here and there, now and then, and we’re left questioning. But I thought I forgot about this, we argue, how can I still remember it clear as day? Of course, I wouldn’t know how to fix this predicament; I, too, am a victim of remembering things.

Other people write to remember; I write to forget. It is the only way I can ensure I won’t remember something. Once I write something, I rarely go back to read it. I forget it; I forget it until someone reminds me of it and tells me how that piece, that stretch of words, saved them, and I tell them: well, thank you, but I was not looking to be reminded of my words. I have much to do today, and thinking of the person I was that day would not help me in my cause.

At least, I want to, but then kindness comes over me, and I stop after thanking them. It wasn’t just unpleasant events I wished to forget but all of it. I did not discriminate between my emotions. Most people preferred joy over others. For me, all of them were equal. I was as happy with my sadness as morbid as I was in my fleeting happiness. I had a tendency to hold on tightly. Some people gripped onto things harder than others. I hold onto things till my hands ache, till my muscles atrophy, till my palm goes red. To have a semblance of a normal life, I must forget most things—even the good things—for once they have happened, they exist only to compare.

Oh, do you remember the good old days? Do you remember we did this and that? Do you remember how happy you were that day? No, I do not. I don’t remember it because I am not the same person. All I know is the person I am now and what I feel today. All else is kept safely in these words I write. To be forced to remember things: what a curse.

And if people were not enough, the breeze, the menace reminded you of some old summer you thought you had forgotten.

It is tedious to be a human being.

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