To paraphrase idlewild, I often forget to remember. Curiously enough, I believe this is due to my extreme skill at remembering to forget.
Sometimes ginger tomcats, sometimes cotton wool and xylophones, sometimes psychotic suicidal dream-parents, or dragon-shaped clouds and sometimes murikami, those figments are captured. Fragments of thoughts and memories all tossed into the fabric of my core. Who knows when or if they will waft their way to the great kaleidoscope of conscious thoughts.
It’s funny, the things you appreciate when they are gone.
Like the first time I immersed myself in my favourite book. I can never feel that same naive anticipation and curiosity again.
Letting the dog sleep on my bed even though she wasn’t supposed to.
Those glorious sips of red wine before the inevitable headaches begin.
Reading plath by the riverside while tori sang in my ears.
All those forgotten earthquakes that shook me into the person I am today.
And yet still chosing to forget so much.