Missed Connections in Philadelphia
The Art Of Forgetting
If fate would confer a blessed favor on this weary serf
I would till my psyche of the deep roots that have been sown
Harrow the landscape of my consciousness
To forget
If at that moment of our encounter, I could have a portent of what lay ahead,
The abrupt, calamitous end,
And, my timorous regret along with the concomitant listlessness
I may have taken more measured steps, or walked away from nourishing my indulgences with thoughts of you
And, yet in life, I have made an art of forgetting
I have compartmentalized the past in the shadowy catacombs of my memory
Packed away to accumulate sedimentary layers of neural dust
But, there is no salve to mitigate the steady impoverishment of my mind
And no suture that will close this carelessly opened laceration
We can neither remake history nor shift its burdens from our backs’
And, regardless of my most sanguine attempts, to feed the terra firma of my soul with mental bloodletting
I cannot shear away the stricken segments and make my concentration whole again.
And, I can only lay vituperative blame upon my own head.
Because it is the fleshy substance within that does not follow my will,
But, wills what could, but never became.
I can only keep practicing the art of forgetting, continue working upon soil of my spirit,
And hope that something flourishes from it.
Her Two Cents
The art of forgetting is a skill we often profess a desire to master, but if we understood how removing even one small memory could have a dramatic, life-changing effect, we might reconsider. Memories are like the knit of a sweater: cut one piece out and other bits begin to unravel, possibly resulting in a complete dismantling of the creation. Is it worth giving up everything connected to the painful portion? Is it worth completely altering who you are?
