When It's Over

When do you say it's over? How do you know the chains that have held you back for so long have finally broken?
 People take years to forget. Some take a lifetime. The lucky ones take a second - and yes, they are lucky for they do not feel the pain of the past. But nor do they feel the wonder of it either -

I have not been good at forgetting. When I was younger, I would not go to sleep until I've memorized all my school notes from the previous day. Every little detail mattered to me. I never had difficulty with my classes (until I learned how to party, that is --but that's a different story) because I'd always remember my professors' lectures. Words and images would stick in my head and will take years to fade. These days, whenever I'd meet old friends and family, we spend hours reminiscing old stuff - most of it are re-told by me. Many times, over and over - until the stories becomes an extension of myself. And I would feel like I was back in the day and I'd tell the stories as if it were just happening at the moment - emotions, and all.

 And so during times like this when I'm confronted with a vague memory, I think hard and I think deep why it has been forgotten. I have come to realize that some of my melancholic memories have been reduced to snippets. Not because they were painful, you see, because I'm a sucker for mellowdramas but mainly because I didnt want to remember how special these were.
I no longer want to remember how special these memories were.Because at some point, I became the only one considering it special any more.

 Memories are woven thoughts and feelings that form images in the mind. Brittle and raw. Fading and unfading.

I have been gifted with a memory so good that I remember every little story I heard when I was a kid. Every song I listened to on the radio thru the decades. Every character and plot of each book I've read. Every family member's smile and voice. The way the each grandparent sounded when they called my name. The smell of my father's shirt right after he comes home from work. The contents of my mother's office bag. The smell of my pencil case every June when I've just bought new pencils and erasers. My sister's breakfast table stories. Everyone I've loved in one way or another --

I remember you. And the things we did, and dreamed about. I remember the things that mattered to us. But I stopped. I tried forgetting. And I became so good at forgetting, sometimes I don't even feel like I was even there. I'm not sure why I wrote this. I'm not even sure if I'd try to start remembering again. I know I should - this is the only way I can capture how beautiful my life has been. Beautiful, yes, but not without pain. And I can take that. I can take the pain. But knowing and feeling that I am now the only one feeling fondness for these memories is more than I can bear.

Memories unshared are just stories. And stories can may as well be forgotten.