Enough, already

I've made my peace...

Memory is a godawfully treacherous thing. How easily it lets you forget all that was unpleasant, and dried up, and dark, and unsettling, and melancholic, and just… wrong. Like food you remember having made faces at. Beetroot, for example. You give it another shot, years down the line from that fateful day in kindergarten, wondering if you'd feel differently now, but it's "Gahhhhh!" and that nauseous feeling all over again. And how delicately memory preserves all that was wonderful, and beautiful, and harmonious, and perfect. Like gorgeous Bombay rain. Naturally, you've conveniently forgotten the squelchy, fetid post-rain-puddles at Kanjurmarg station. But, hell... I guess the mind does need to work that way. I imagine we’d all kill ourselves if all we could remember were the horrid things. It’s just, sometimes, it's hideously inconvenient. Almost makes you want to wipe it clean. Almost.