Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.21

Near is your forgetfulness of all things, and near the forgetfulness of you by all.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 7 (tr Long)

Memory is such a tricky thing. People, places, things, or events seem to become bigger or smaller, better or worse, more wonderful or more terrifying, simply by how they exist in our memories. It is difficult to accept that memory is not always the same thing as reality, just as any perception is not always the same thing as what truly is.

I know I once did a bad thing when I was a young pup, but I really have no memory of doing it. I only know I did it because of the later effects. I wasn’t drunk, or high on anything. I somehow blocked out any awareness. I told all the important people who were involved that I had no idea of what they were talking about. I was completely sincere. They looked at me sideways.

It took me quite some time to realize that my memory played games with me. I tend to remember pleasant things, but I somehow suppress unpleasant things. I will immediately recall, for example, all the wonderful moments with the lost love of my life. I have to consciously burrow into my mind to remember that she was also consistently a liar and a cheater.

Whenever I think of her, I have this image of us holding hands, and swearing unconditional love for one another. It takes longer for me to come up with another far less pleasant image, seeing her legs wrapped around another man at a drunken college party.

See, that hurts, and I try to remove it from my memory. Many of my memories hurt like hell. I wish they would all go away.

And you know what? They will go away. I am not the burden of my past. I am not the worry about my future. I am only who I am right now, the only thing ever guaranteed to me, the only thing that is immediately within my power.

My awareness of myself, as I am right now, will soon end. I will become something else, only God knows what, but the rest will cease. What I remember will cease. What others remember will cease. None of that will matter, not one bit.

I was, thanks to the kindness of Nature and the grace of Providence, given a chance. That chance was but a moment. That moment lasted far longer than I ever deserved. I messed it up so often, but I was somehow given an opportunity to do it again. Many people don’t have that opportunity. They can’t take it back.

So when I sit and mope, and when I complain about my horrid memories, I need to keep in mind that I am not what I once was. I am what I am right now, and that is entirely up to me right now. What I remember doesn’t matter. Who remembers me doesn’t matter.

It will pass. The only thing to worry about is being good and decent at this very moment.

Written in 10/2007

IMAGE: Carl Gustav Carus, Memory of a Wooded Island (1834)