This is something I’m thinking about all the time. Not only when I’m doing something exceptional.
Behind every corner lurks my fear of forgetting. Forgetting how happy I am, how I feel, what I do. I can walk in the park on a beautiful summer’s day and feel enormous bliss and terrible panic at the same time: because I can’t hold on to it. How will I ever remember exactly how it felt? I can’t hold on to all the joy I feel, I can’t contain it. And it rips me apart.
This is why every time I go on a holiday, I write in a journal. Not because I like it, no, as a matter of fact, I hate it. But all the glueing down receipts and collecting city maps pays off. Afterwards, flipping through my little books, I feel nothing but gratitude. Sure, I can’t exactly remember how I felt. But I’m positive that I was happy, I can feel the sand burning under my feet, I can taste the icecream that I ate on that cosy piazza again.
My battle against ephemerality will never be won, but I feel that at least, it won’t be lost either.