Forgetting and me—me and forgetting

I barely remember a time

when—

my mind didn’t slip into haze

~

not much in recent years—but,

before the forgetting unravelled—and—stole more moments

than I could’ve thought—wanted

~

I remember holding onto details—faces, voices

values of memory I held in the highest regard

but struggle with

every day

~

forgetting stings at first—you feel the pangs

in your chest—

like that song you once loved but can’t hum anymore

or the photograph whose names you can’t recall—

etched into your mind—but fading

~

this is the point at which you make the declaration—the promise

to remember better—hold on tighter—never let go

~

that’s how things should play out—

but—

as so often is the case with life

things don’t play out the way we’d hope they would

~

sometimes, if you forget one thing quickly

to cover the last,

you can trick yourself—

the sting will pass,

but the emptiness lingers—

the longer you forget, the harder to fight,

to recover, to retrieve what once was clear

~

forgetting, losing and me, me, losing and forgetting

~

so many memories are gone—swallowed by silence

we want to escape the ache of remembering,

want to hide them—bury them

often out of duty—of love (confused and poorly-thought-out, but understandable)

or simply because—

we don’t want the world—our close-knit, intimate world

to know what we’ve lost, what we can’t recall,

and how it breaks us

~

if we even know

~

justified or not—reasonable or not—serious or not,

forgetting, even when it protects us,

is not worth it

~

you feel bad the first few times you lose a memory—

in time you dull out that pain, that hurt—and—forgetting becomes easier

~

the things we forget—

bastardised echoes of the truths we’d hold if we were strong—

strong or had any sense of grace.

~

but grace is defeated when time is threatened

not fear of death—no,

just fear of being erased.

our fight or flight, survivalist instincts kick in—

we cling to fragments, scraps of memory,

the stories we weave to protect our fading selves

~

these aspects I know too well,

far too well

~

I—

wish I’d responded to the pangs

the hurt and pain—the first times forgetting forced me to feel

to prevent me from the lifelong battle—it feels like—I have with the urge to fade

even over the smallest details

if I’d fought harder—sooner

bloodied, broken by the bitter acid of memory—

the photograph was right:

“You’ll never remember”

but unburdened by the crushing weight

but relieved of the deafening silence

of a memory—the forgetting—I carried too long.