There are so many moments I take mental note of, instantly I’ll stop and think ‘I’ll have to write about this’ but a second later, it’s already vanished, I’ll continue on with my day and the note is entirely forgotten. Sadly, I inherited my father’s memory, which isn’t quite as swift as a goldfish but terrible enough to elicit the ever growing fear that I won’t remember so many of the tiny but pretty details of my life that at the time, as they happen, overwhelm me. And they are never monumental, you see, those are hard to forget, it’s all the smaller shimmers of my life that run right through me like an electric current, intensely ending as they soon as they begin. You see as soon as I started visualising my life as a story, the phobia of losing entire sentences that collect into holes where complete paragraphs should stand; it became an obsession, hence why I started a journal. But by the time I have a chance to sit down and write there, I’ve already forgotten so many of the finer points I clutched at while they happened. So chapters are gone, forever. It makes me sad because no one but me can be the witness to my life, even I, the protagonist and sole proprietor of these days passing through me, is incapable of remembering all the things that made me feel something at some point somewhere. I read recently that ‘pain engraves a deeper memory’, isn’t that the saddest of all? All the small beautiful memories are mentally abandoned and in their place, I remember the hard, the difficult, the tears. As someone who leans towards melancholy, I too often place the pain of my past on a pedestal and I partly blame my inability to remember. I don’t want chapters of my life washed away by the passing of time, by distractions and so on. I wish it would all soak in so I’d have the beginning, the middle and finally, the end. Isn’t that curious about human existence? It’s so transient and yet none of us can remember it entirely. It was enough to keep me up until 3 am last night, it’s a dormant anxiety that surfaces every so often and suddenly, I’m overrun with dread. I’m incapable of remembering yesterday as well as I can recall today. Every year that passes renders the previous a little hazier, a little less coherent, a tiny bit less tangible. I suppose that’s life though, it all falls through our hands like sand at the end. But it’s a story too ; a too-short tale, chapters that develop and swiftly end, a narrative I really don’t want to forget. I hate that I forget, oh how I hate the blanks that only seem to grow wider as the days go by.