Forgetfulness


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