An old child has a long memory

There is nothing else as futile as the act of redeeming the negligible. For, in any case, there is a good cause why such things are negligible in the very first place. Of course, a full-fledged dictionary of the obscure is beyond my current capacity ( although I once had hoped I could, or was, at least, capable of such a thing ), but I will pursue this endeavor with what I could.

To be honest, one has an unhealthy obsession with memory. Faulty memory. It seems natural, even essential, for men to forget things. It is, in a way, a coping mechanism for having too many things that trudge and wallow about in the mush within our skulls. Forgetting is essential to survival, opiates for living.

This goes especially true for pain. The memory of pain is either two things: forgettable and unforgettable. We try to forget as much pain as we can so that we could go on about our lives. People who linger in the company of their personal demons are often masochists of the highest kind--nee, depressed; people with long memories are often in pain. They remember too much, forget so little. Imagine, a person with perfect memory, so vivid that yesterday lives simultaneously with today. Every little thing that happened to you is still there. But such is the nature of pain that it is magnified in retrospect. Pitiful existence.

In any case, most of the things forgotten have yet worth in them, made obscure for some equally obscure reason, nevertheless, most worthy of remembrance.

Memento mori? Almost.