What is a writer without memories? I often say that I write because I remember so much, so many details that I have to exorcise somehow else I’ll burst.
And yet the relief is momentary. There is always something more to write, some angle that was not yet examined or could be examined further.
Memory is what I am. Memory takes up no physical space. It is an asset, quite often, to remember things. To be able to carry memories around.
But attachment to memory can be a burden. Or, I should say, fixation is a burden. To be fixated on what was, on who I was, on where I was, on what happened, on what I thought would happen, on the sequence of events that lead me to my particular present.
I wonder what it would be like to let go of remembering. To let go of all that was. There is something that feels scary about it. Unanchored, unsettled. Adrift. I don’t necessarily want to be adrift. I just don’t want to feel trapped.
There are parts of me that I have to let go. There are memories which have unreasonable power over me. The constant comparison and contrast of past and present can infringe upon potential futures. I want to own the past, I want to be here in the present, and I want to be open to the future.