I believe in memories. I believe in the part of your brain that stores memories the hippocampus.
I believe in remembering and I put faith in forgetting. I believe in being hazy on names and faces, and blanking on dates and not events.
While I believe in the saying, “Forgive and forget.” I believe in never truly forgetting.
I believe that remembering can incapacitate you and forgetting can emancipate you. I believe that it’s okay to dwell on your memories and pick them apart, I also believe that you are allowed to forget everything – love, beauty, or even something vaguely resembling religion. The guy you thought you loved, erasing everything you thought you knew about what is beautiful and I even believe in forgetting about God.
I believe that the hippocampus is worthy of great praise, but sometimes I believe that my memories are far too much to handle, and that I will tear my hippocampus out of my very head. It just doesn’t belong there. Where would I be then? I believe that if I had no recollection, I would not be who I am. And even though it gets hard to handle, I believe that my memories have made me everything that I am today. Whether I like them or not… There are occasions I never want to remember, but unfairly, they are the things I can recall with utmost clarity. Other events, I wish I could remember, but they’ve just happened to slip away.
I believe in the feeling in your stomach, the first time you kiss someone that matters and in forgetting the stench of their breath! I believe in forgetting my Algebra homework, due to a lack of interest, but I remember not to tell my teacher that. I remember my two-times tables, the first time I kissed a guy, and my favorite author’s middle name. I do not, however, remember the teacher that taught me those multiplication facts, or the gossip-hungry girl who dared him to kiss me.
I believe that memory is beautiful, and magnificent, and sometimes frightening. It is worth every bit of unnecessary information that you compile, and every bit of necessary information you do not. In my head, I am able to hear the song I replayed while reading Speak. I am even able to smell the pages and hear them crinkle as I flip through, devouring every word. What I don’t want to remember is how well I relate to Melinda Sordino’s character.
I believe that the hippocampus isn’t good or bad, but just is…There. It’s just part of your brain, that thing in your skull that we don’t use nearly as much as we should. The hippocampus is not to blame for the bad memories that resurface at inappropriate, inconvenient times or the breathtaking memories that resurface just when you need a pick-me-up.
I believe that it’s okay to mourn those who cannot remember. But secretly, I believe that it’s okay to envy them too.
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