Forgetfulness to me has
certain hard fast rules that can never be broken. Or so it seems. For instance,
it is always easy for someone like me to be forgotten. But it is impossibly
hard for me to forget. People like me were not made, or meant, to forget.
Forgetfulness, it seems, is a bliss that is denied us. Why is it so, I wonder?
Why is it so?
People like me live
unappreciated and die forgotten. Forgotten, that is, until they are
rediscovered some indefinite span of time into the future by some hapless
practitioner of soul-archeology – a man who can never be inspired by his
present reality, and is incapable of imagining the future on his own; a desperate
man in search of illusions, ancient illusions, any illusions, to give himself
some hope, some warmth, some company. For illusions are the only possible
source of hope in life…until they are fulfilled. Once fulfilled, they are once
more...forgotten. But, for a short while, long after I am dead, I might finally
be embraced.
February 5, 1997