to forget

it is not so much my inability to write but the lack of courage for truth. Of life lived less than what can be an image to remember. To write is to assert, to acknowledge an act or thought as a personal truth that existed. To forget, or to recreate a forgotten past is the desperation of a seemingly (and truly) insipid life, to erase the moments that are cliche; means to let go of your being. To only remember what has not been written allows for the construction of the past in the mind of today, offering an escape from the paradoxes, from the conflicts between me before and the me tommorow.

A wish to live not in moments but in life, demands for the memories of another, to follow them unto oblivion. To read of them, into them and from them. But to expect another to flow into you, to save my 'I' from the isolation inherent in being human is stupid, to think of them to feed you with your life an absurdity. Then maybe only can what is sometimes called love by people a tracedent or a momentary ilusion into the state of knowing another, and thus instantiating the self; as a legacy and with a future.