Burning Memories

The act of forgetting is probably one of the most ironic human behavior. When unsought, it takes care of itself. When constrained, however, it makes you undergo an arduously painful process that takes you back each time.

I’m sure I hid these cards well, away from the prying eyes of my mother. She has openly disapproved of any relationship I had with my ex, so much so that each time I brought home any ‘token of affection’, I would be welcomed with an exasperated click of the tongue, followed by a livid interrogation. These cards were a persistent source of vexation to our poor old mother.

What is that? Where did that come from? Did I not tell you to sever ties already? How come you insist on staying in that kind of relationship? Blah blah blah…

Trust me, I got that a lot. A LOT.

I hated my mom back then. Though I was able to recognize her dissent, I wasn’t quite capable of fully comprehending her actions. The cards were a reminder of love—a love so strong, so formidable that even our friends were so convinced that we were going to end up together forever. I would read them constantly, aloud even. I was smitten. WE were smitten.

Of course, I threw that all away when I decided to finally dissolve the relationship 5 months ago. More than four years of being together just ended up like the bittersweet resolution of {500} Days of Summer—definite, but hazy. I am not proud that I got to move on so swiftly. A few days after the break-up, I could hardly think of my ex; a week or so, I have already completely forgotten that I ever was in a long-term relationship. Two weeks ago, I tried to look back and I almost successfully convinced myself that I have been single my entire life.

As what I’ve said about forgetting: leave it alone and it takes care of itself. 

Unfortunately, the human brain is not capable of completely erasing memories unless associations still exist. Just when I thought I was on the verge of totally forgetting everything about the relationship, I ran across the cards. I had them so carefully stashed within the depths of my closet, I almost forgot they were there until I was forced to clean it up to look for my SIM card PUK code. It was already the middle of the night and I was longing for some lengthy restful slumber that time. Yet somehow, I couldn’t let this chance pass me by. Upon having made sure that the coast was clear, I opened the envelopes that contained the cards and pored over them with the same eagerness as when I first read them—not for anything else but for the sentimentalism that was sure to supervene. (You and your malicious minds!)

And there I was, laughing at my seventeen, eighteen year-old self. Oh how foolish I was; buying every sappy detail of the affections being bowled all over me. There were birthday cards, monthsary cards, Valentine’s Day cards, anniversary cards, sorry cards, and the sporadic “nothing-special-today-I-just-wanted-to-tell-you-I-love-you” cards. All the things that I thought I have already forgotten came rushing back to me, like the perennial storms of July after the scorching heat of the summer sun. Our love story was quite exciting, mind you, and several precious moments remain documented in the contents of these precious cards.

I have to admit that I actually enjoyed reading through every single one of them, albeit ashamedly. Despite having promised myself never to look back, there I was, happily flitting through every card like I just received them. Regression, I think it’s called. And then there was this feeling—guilt, I think it’s called.

After I slipped the last card back to its envelope, I stared at the blank space right in front of me for the longest time; fazed, disconcerted. All these things that I have been running from—the memories of a past I have turned my back to—have come back once again, embodied by these ‘emblems’. I shook my head in utter antipathy.

As long as a stimulus for the association exists, escape is as futile as any effort to climb out of Hell’s ladder. I will forever be imprisoned to the past that I have sworn never to go back to.

Suddenly, forgetting has become the most difficult thing to do.

I didn’t sleep soundly that night. My dreams were a mishmash of happy memories and crying moments from our four-year relationship. If only I could scream. If only I could tell my brain to shut up and let me move on. If only I could forget.

I woke up feeling dizzy—disturbed; violated.

The cards still remained on where I left them last night—scattered; enticing.

Then in a sudden fit of anger, I placed all of them inside an envelope, grabbed a box of matches, and inflamed them. I watched the cards burn as each of them got engulfed by the crackling fire, eventually reduced into mere ashes.

Nothing more.

                       Forever carried by the gales that blow;

 Where it leads to, I wouldn't know.

For what were once memoirs of formidable love, 

Have become ashes that crumble to the beating of the wind, 

         —a sorry excuse for a vestige. 

                   —a categorical close to memories.