The case of the missing memories

I’m not sure how I feel about starting to lose my memory. Maybe it’s just brain fog from extreme emotional and physical exhaustion brought on by a number of things… Believe me, I am acutely aware of the fact that much of my current exhaustion is like the ultimate release of stress that’s built up for the past four years. Suddenly I can breathe, and all I want to do these past few days is crawl in the corner and die for a little bit. If it was feasible to do so, I would sleep all day, a desire that I haven’t had for a long time.

So it could be brain fog, between the stress of the past few years and the autoimmune stuff (not to mention the medications), but I don’t think it is. It’s getting harder to remember the distant past: names, events, places, people.

I know that such things fading would really upset some people. Frankly, a part of me is also a bit upset. But another part of me is relieved to be forgetting things.

It probably doesn’t make much sense to most people, but I feel that replaying memories is a symptom of clinging to something other than the present moment, which is the only real moment. Everything else is fabrication.

I used to put great stock into memories and knowledge. I would cling to pictures, objects and memories as if they had some kind of permanent essence that defined who I was. I prided myself in being one of the more knowledgeable folks people knew — I had a vast array of factoids, experiences and memories at my disposal and I wasn’t afraid to use any of it for any reason whatsoever, whether it be debate, being helpful to someone, or just being a show-off. Now, I’m often quite happy to let other people collect knowledge while I tend to let it float away.

It is annoying, however, when I know I used to have knowledge of something, but I can’t quite put my finger on that file that I used to have in the cabinet.

It’s also nice being the stupid one for a change.

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