There's this story I like to tell people, for whatever reason, about this man who had a perfect memory. He could, with great detail, recall exact conversations he had with people years in the past. His brain was literally a recording device. By his mid twenties, he had collected some umpteenth degrees in umpteenth fields, and was projected to be the next great thinker/genius of his era. However, by his late thirties he had gone pretty much insane and into isolation and finally committed suicide by age 37. His final rantings went on about how he could not forget and how he wanted to rip his brain out of his head.

Why do I tell this story? Because its kinda interesting, its has this type of "midas touch" appeal, some extraordinary human gift that carries both a heavy blessing and a heavy curse. And its like a warning to me, because I like to think at least, that I have a better memory than most, in that, sometimes I try to remember things that nobody else even thinks about anymore.

And because memory is sometimes a conscious effort, at least for us non-geniuses. A memory lives on inside of you because you choose to let it live on. You remember things because every once in a while, you think about it. You stick your big toe into the water and feel the current.

But yeah, there's a lot of different types of people. Some people can't let things go, some people don't let things stick. I wonder sometimes who's better off or happier in the long run.

[ esca | 11:53 AM | ]