I forget, sometimes. That there are more pleasant things in the world than the self; there are more things to do than to love. I forget that there are taxes and people out to tell me that oh, you have to prepare for the real world, like the one we live in now is not really real, just a taste, just a sample.
I forget to tell myself to take my time, that I am human and humans were made to be beautiful and imperfect, though I know that’s been said many times before, in many ways. I forget to tell myself to slow down, and when I do, I forget to tell myself to move. I forget that balance is such a delicate thing, and I forget that you don’t always get what you want.
I forget to write, sometimes, to treat it like a job, because that’s what you must do to keep writing, or so they say. I forget to stop and smell the roses, even when everything everywhere is asphalt and concrete and skyscrapers. I forget to tell people I care. I forget to care altogether.
I forget that I write honestly. I forget to ignore things like geez, Sophia, you’re so dramatic and I forget to do the dishes or buy groceries. I forget to take the chicken out of the freezer so that it thaws before mom comes home. I forget to take it out again, the next time it happens, even when I’ve already promised to remember, and I forget to apologize to her this time, because I’m angry that she’s angry. She cooks supper and I forget I’m angry, too.
I forget deadlines; I forget to care about those. I forget that I have to live, too, because I’m not really skin and bones as much as I am a creature who survives solely on wonderfully mundane things like music and coffee and books. I forget to be smart. I forget that it’s okay to be a little bitter about things, sometimes, because better to feel now and move on, than to not, then wallow later.
I should write things down, so maybe I won’t forget.