Forgetting is this

Forgetting is this:

It’s waking to the chilling nausea of realising you have forgotten.

It’s standing in a fog, with the dimly-lit shape of a fragmented memory so close that you know it’s important, but tantalisingly out of reach.

It’s a swirling mist that churns and eddies each time you grasp uselessly for what eludes.

Forgetting is this:

It’s failing, without realising, the good people who share your life, by not holding on to the truths they gave you.

It’s the flicker of disappointment you catch in their eyes.  Or worse, the silent kindness of the reaction they conceal.

It’s reaching out to them through your heart-space because you sense the hurt you have caused, without knowing what slipped away.

Forgetting is this:

It’s the clever details that leak away, so that you learn and lose, and have to learn again, always.

It’s the sudden flash of recollection that occurs slow eons after the critical moment you needed it.

It’s the surge of shame that burns hotly in the swift oxygen of recognition and understanding.

Sometimes, forgetting is this: 

It’s remembering clearly, just as well as you always did, while someone spoon-feeds you the revisions and half-truths they think you’ll swallow down meekly.

And sometimes you call them out on it, and sometimes you don’t.

But it stays with you, and burrows into the deepest part of your consciousness.

And, always, it’s this:

A loss that, unlike the memories, always returns in vivid detail.

But, forgetting is also this:

It’s seeing the world, again, with fresh eyes.

It’s relinquishing ten thousand tiny details that don’t matter, and never did.

It’s learning to accept kindness, and trust in goodness.

It’s placing your ego to one side, and surrendering to the wisdom of intuition.

It’s letting go of time, and dropping mindfully into the spaciousness of Now.

It’s understanding that everything is energy, and energy is never lost.