One thing I hear often is, “Don’t forget me/I don’t want to be forgotten.”
I once met a man that said to me, “I only want to be the man that they will recount to their girlfriends one day over drinks, and without being able to recall my name or face, they will say that was the best shag they ever had.”
Prey to the same thoughts of contrary, I thought about this distinct social attitude we carry about ourselves. This desire to achieve closest to an infinitive existence.
Saying goes that you die twice; the first when your body is laid, the second time is the last time someone utters your name.
But so what if I utter my great-grandmother’s name? Without having met her or known much of her history, is she truly being honored and remembered as she should? Would even that suffice if her conscience existed today, to feel soothe that a small breathe advanced her to the 21st century. Ever so briefly.
This last year had been a greatly formative year for me. I thought about this and tugged at the strings of memories to different people that have come and gone in my life. I tried to advance that nostalgia decades from now. How could I possibly understand what this will feel like when I’m 50?
Then I realized something. Ever since I have fallen in love with language as an outlet, I have always spoken beyond myself. I write words that beguile my nature and age. I write as if to progress my mind’s urging for emotional depth and intellectual bandwidth; my own words call for it. Yet I fall short against those words often.The petulant part of me that disgraces this facade is the part that does not want to forget/be forgotten.
She fears to let go of things that has happened in case she forgets how they felt. Whether it was brilliant or devastating. In this same selfish streak she hopes someone feels this in her memory too.
She ponders the devastating beauty that exists in skinny moments in life. A short prose that left your mind in the wandering vastness under the author’s guide. Old photographs that transcend the story and characters with time. A stranger on the street. A man. A woman. A friend.
My words however displaces this fear. Instead, the author that governs this keyboard says she is okay to have existed briefly, brilliantly, in someone’s time. In our life time anyway. Her words will likely live beyond her.