Forgetting Is Never A Blessing

Every passing year makes it harder and harder to remember. Childhood friends drift away into nothingness, reduced only to fragments of names, and golden rays of sunshine raining down on my young smiles are lost forever in the dark shadows of my memory. The past becomes obsolete and even though I know someday, none of it will, I keep thinking- no, wishing- that it will all come back to me. The memories, the stories, everything that happened, and everything that didn’t.
I don’t want to forget, because every time I do, I lose a part of myself that hurts when I think about it. Sometimes I don’t even realize it, but when I do, I can’t bring myself to acknowledge that yet another memory has slipped beyond my grasp.
Looking back on old papers, I’ll occasionally find a name, a single word that was messily scribbled in a child’s purple writing. For the next few hours, I’ll simply tear myself apart, searching for some clue that will lead me to the mysterious nameless name. But no matter how hard I look, I won’t find who they were, not because they were insignificant, but because I was young, and because my memory had failed me once again.
I’ve always believed the past is simply a collection of cherished memories, both good and bad, and a reminder of happy moments that we can never reclaim again. That’s true, but it’s also full of things we forgot, and things we made up in their absence.
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