The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
I think there’s something so tragic and beautiful at the same time about the impermanence of humanity as a whole—right now in the grand scheme of everything that has or will happen in the universe—and then the insignifance of us as individuals in this swirling pool of existence.
As I have alluded to in my blog post about the judgement of beauty, I do try my best to always remember.
My sister and her favourite food at Park Hyatt—we had somehow racked up a $600 room service bill over 3 days just ordering burgers.
I think it’s such an intimate gesture, remembering. To be loved is to be remembered, and I guess that’s how I show my love for those around me—showing that I am present and, more importantly, that I care. But then I also try to remember the most trivial aspects of my life as well: the way raindrops tap on my bedroom window during summer thunderstorms, or the way the wind breezes under my hoodies every winter back home. So then why? Believe me, I’m the last person who would ever say that they loved living. In fact, if it weren’t for my inkling that my family would be sad if I did so, I would choose to die right now if I could.
I think the thing about remembering though, is that it goes hand in hand with being forgotten. I think that that is the only inevitability in life—that everything will be forgotten. Hence, I have an unhealthy fixation on the fact that moments will be lost to the currents of time.
Bear with me here. I think I first noticed it one afternoon (or was it morning?) when my dad was picking me up from preschool (or was he dropping me off at school?—well, now that I think about it, he was more likely picking me up from preschool, since our driver would drop me off). I remember (or rather, I am trying to piece together the many fragments of this memory that is crumbling apart as I reach for it) his voice sounded so strange that one time when he coughed (or was it a voice crack?), and after I noticed it, the sound started replaying in my head over and over and over as I tried to hold on to the moment. I thought that I would want to remember how funny he sounded so that I could revisit the memory after and silently laugh about it to myself. But then, after the sound replayed in my mind about ten times or so, I started to doubt whether what was echoing in my mind was even the sound I had heard at all—it had started to sound so foreign to me—and to no avail, I tried to travel back to when I had first heard the sound to cross reference it with, only to be left with the realisation that that moment was then gone forever.
It is true that I am a very sentimental person. I always feel like I have to note down, to keep a record of, everything, as though dementia has its sinister eyes set on me and may pounce at any moment. I was thinking about how there are so many experiences and memories that we cherish, that we know we will remember forever, that we wish we could revisit at every waking moment. But you can only remember what you can remember. How would you be able to tell if you had forgotten something? What if there are memories you had promised yourself to never forget, and still end up forgetting anyway?
And I think I started keeping track of every single thing I think about in case I forget—evident by the 1500 Safari tabs still open and the endless array of Notes app entries on my phone. I just keep thinking to myself that these moments—ones that I, while experiencing them, would pray to keep alive forever—will have to succumb to the erosion of time at some point.
I am scared to close browser tabs, in case I ever need them again for reference, or to look back upon from time to time—which I have never done before.
I just wish there was a way to catalogue all of this: all of my turbulent thoughts and feelings, all of the micro-instances playing around me, all of my fleeting joys and woes. Even if I’m keeping a memory to replay it over and over, the act of remembering is merely the act of recalling the last time you recalled the memory—and it will morph and change over time like a twisted game of telephone. And if I try to take a photo or a video of a moment, it is still restrained by the camera’s capabilities, or by my own shaky hands, or the playback monitor and speakers. But then again, would I choose to record a moment down as objectively as possible, or is the core of life the subjectivity that inherently comes with being immersed a moment, and the emotions attached to said subjective experiences?
