Forgetting, Blackpool Rock, and pouring liquid memories into a bucket full of holes...

I remember a time when I never forgot anything. When I remembered everything.

No matter how unimportant it felt or how insignificant it seemed at the time.I remember when even the smallest details of my life were firmly embedded on the interior surface of my brain cells, like the writing in the inside of a stick of Blackpool rock.

I remember a time when I didn’t have to stare blankly, trying to remember the names and faces of people I’d supposedly known all my life.

I remember the embarrassment and panic I felt when I came up against the brick wall of my own inability to claw important details back to clarity, before they disappeared into my own personal blanket of fog.

Anyway…that was this morning, after the moon was on its way out, and the sun was on its way in.

By lunchtime, my brain had sucked the words from the interior of my sticky rock, and the names and faces of the people and places I had tried so hard to hold onto from the night before had done a runner, leaving gaping holes of nothing that once upon a time used to be crammed full of something.

I know that, by the time night comes knocking on the door once again, I won’t have a cat in Hell’s chance of getting a decent sleep. Or even an indecent one.

All that will be left is to lie awake and stare at the ceiling until the light comes barging through the curtains like an unwelcome guest.

And then it will start all over again. Same old same old. Like pouring liquid memories into a bucket full of holes…and watching the memories drain away quickly before the sun puts in an appearance.

I remember a time when I never forgot anything…