Having such an ego as mine it is frustrating to read a poem about reminiscense and knowing I might be there but not because the title says so: memories of some but not all of them. It tortures me knowing I was important and I might have been forgotten and at the same time, I feel terribly selfish and mean because I know I mean so much for some who at the same time mean so much for me. Once Carrie Bradshaw said, "Why do we worry for what we don't have?" or something like that. If I have so many blessings in my life: freedom, health, exercise, time, my writing, friends, family that cares, a wonderful and loving boyfriend, why should I worry for a daughter that ocassionally remembers I exist, an ex-boyfriend who writes criptic poetry that might include me...? I guess it's a matter of ego.
It's clear I can't remember what I have forgotten because it is forgotten, I only rememebr when I read my past diaries. I know things that used to hurt me don't hurt anymore and that is great.
Maybe what I share with this mean poet is the desire to be immortal through memory, through having etched such an important impact in his memory that I won't die after I have left this world.
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