forget our memories


“To: Will From: A Queen You left in August and I completely fell a part. I couldn’t eat for three days–didn’t want to. I sobbed for weeks. I wracked my brain every single day and replayed our last day together in my mind. I’d spend nights on the run with friends and ignored my family. I couldn’t stand to look at pictures of us together, but I didn’t have the strength to delete them. I looked back at our messages and wanted nothing but to go back and relive that time we spent together. I was terrified that I’d forget our memories, so I wept and wrote them down. Most importantly, I feared that you would forget about me. I did everything in my power to ignore the dull ache in my chest. I remembered making fun of heartbroken girls at this young age and thinking "how stupid”, but I had turned into one of them. I changed my wardrobe, I put you in a book, I locked out the people that you didn’t like during our relationship, and I even took the semester off. I couldn’t understand why I was still sad in November when you clearly had moved on. One night I took one of Mom’s desperate attempts to bring the normalcy back in our lives and went on an IHOP run after midnight. I was starting to feel semi-normal again when I overheard a conversation as we were walking towards a booth in front of a group of kids. “That’s Will’s ex. He told me about her. He only dated her because of her boobs. She completely overreacted after and during their break-up”. And then a girl piped up, “she has bigger boobs than me”. I started hysterically laughing. Mom didn’t know what was going on but she started laughing because I was laughing so loudly. After they left I told her what had been said. Later I learned from a new friend I had made while creating a new wardrobe, that you were the boy girls used because they knew who you truly were. A boy that people befriended out of sympathy. One morning I woke up and stared at the beautiful girl before me. On New Year’s Eve I vowed to keep you in 2016 and that’s what I did. Although I am constantly reminded of the Hell I went through last semester while picking up my GPA, I am not affected by you anymore. I hope this message finds you at the most inconvenient time. When your sob stories no longer draw people in and they realize the monster you truly are. I refuse to date at this point of my life because I’m working on my career. I’m brilliant and will succeed, you know it. When I am ready, a very special man will be welcomed into my life. I am golden and I will never settle for anything less ever again.“ #unsentproject

There is something 
terribly nostalgic 
about grainy high
school photos, bright
flashes and closed eyes,
red eyed nighttime moments,
all those blurry laughs.

You laugh now at
these times, these
days that seem
endless, but one
day it will all be gone.

One day we will
only remember 
each other as 
red eyes and 
grainy smiles. 

One day, we will
wish we could 
remember each 
other just as fondly 
as we once did.

—  Photograph each other; you’ll be thankful later. 

It was easier than I thought to get back into the groove of things… Chemistry vocab and diagrams of the noggin…

Question for you (in relation to an English project): how do you think time and memory impact us as individuals and what does our viewpoints on time suggest about humanity in general?

So far I think that time is only an idea and our forced perception of being able to control/manage time shows a fear of the unknown; a fear of what could happen, of being forgotten, and forgetting ourselves and our memories, the essence of who we are.
I’d love to hear your ideas or any quotes/thoughts related to the topic, it would be super helpful!


I’ve gone ten months without you. Ten entire months. And I’ve been okay, you know? I’ve been good.” She was trying not to cry, but her chest felt so heavy and her heart felt so weak. “But I’ve thought about you every single day. I’ve thought about the way your mom got mad at you for making fun of poorly developed movies. I’ve downloaded your favorite songs just so I could sing along with you for just a little while longer. I’ve smiled at our adventures—hot air balloons to hiking. I’ve cried because I remember how big your heart is and I know I’m not in it anymore. And yes, I want to be your friend. I want to have you in my life. But I need you to know that you aren’t that easy to forget, and neither are our memories.
—  excerpt from an unfinished book #99

“Sometimes I feel like I trusted you too well | Sometimes I just feel like screaming at myself | Sometimes I’m in disbelief, I didn’t know | Somehow I need to be alone | Don’t stay | Forget our memories | Forget our possibilities”

How great it is to love a burning man.

I’ve seen wildfires commit suicide when you come near. I can never find your hands
but still, I know your fingertips are matchsticks. I’m sorry, but my smoky lifespan doubles every time you sigh on the other line.

Tell me that you are not a song of burning. A candle will surrender its oxygen if only you stand
 close enough. Trust me, I would know that no matter how many tsunamis I swallow, I will never forget our memories.

I love you in the way a frightened deer will lock its knees and not move again. Even if that means burning alive.

What is the process of forgetting? What does it look like, what are its steps? How does one forget and how then, does one remember? How is it that sometimes, the most important parts of one’s history gets buried so deep within the cracks of time, that to revive them is a feat of enormous excavation.

How do we forget, not just our memories, but also the belongings bequeathed to us by our forefathers? Is it the sheer mundanity and simplicity of the object that allows it to lie isolated for years at the backs of closets, trunks and trinket boxes- untouched, unventured, unexplored. How do we forget the shawls we wore across our shoulders as children, the pens our fathers used, the utensils our grandmothers cooked in and the jewellery our mothers included in our trousseau.

How do we forget the enormity of that gift, and the serendipity of its survival. How do we forget the power of antique, or material history, of material memory. And how can we, yet again, strive to remember.

So many stories about so many forgotten things from so many cities across a long and lonely border. I think sometimes I am creating an archive of antiquated ghosts and shadows of the things people once held dear. So many beautiful and obscure objects make up this Radcliffe line between us. I wonder, rather naively, that if I find them all, if I pick them up and collect them, would the line become somewhat lighter, would it fade even a little bit, would its memory become less dense? Would I then, not be able to make a bridge with these objects instead and connect a vivisected land?

Deo Volente

The next time I take your hand in mine,
may the skies, the trees, the sheets bear witness,
and not perjure themselves when you question my loyalty;
The next time you choose to slip away in the night,
may the doors prevent this tragedy,
and not simply let you by without a word;
The next time it feels like a downpour of desolation,
may the comfort of my arms house your frightened being,
and not let you bear the brush of anxiety alone.

The next time our eyes meet in the mirror,
may it bear the weight of all the letters unsent,
and not crack from side to side;
The next time our goodbyes echo in the hallway,
may it bear the pain of our separation, and not crumble into debris.

The next time our minds forget the memories of content,
may our hearts remind us of the vivid details,
and not surrender to the treason of daily despair;
The next time our lips fold over porcelain cups,
may they be indent with our secret smiles,
and not to be sold untreasured by our progeny.

I cannot seem to forget you; all of our memories keep flooding my brain like a tidal wave. I want to forget. I would give anything to never remember a single thing about you, but I can’t. I want every single thought of you to just disappear. I just want to get on with my life and not think about you every waking second of it, but I simply cannot…
—  m.r.s// just let me be 10:14pm
I’m filling my lungs with smoke because when you left I felt so empty and to be honest I thought I could forget you. I thought I could forget your name. I thought I could forget our memories but it only made me remember you.
—  // A.S.B