It is not that I am getting forgetful as I grow older, it is merely that I am replacing old information with new, my mind is large but its capacity is still finite.
So if I forget your name when I see you, it is not because you do not matter, although that could be the case, it is simply that I now remember the names of others and yours exceeded capacity.
It is not that I do not care about you, assume that I do whether true or not, help me by introducing yourself again, a gentle reminder of where and how we met, unless, of course, you have forgotten me as well, in which case I am pleased to have the chance to meet you.
You search without end for a way to precisely measure life in all of its aspects. You will not be dissuaded by the fact that you can no more control its span than you could control your need to breathe. You say you picked the sperm and egg, that their union you carefully orchestrated. You believe all things can be measured, if you can only identify proper metrics for the task. You know precisely how tall you are, how much you have shrunken over the years, how much your waistline has grown. You can count your good deeds, have a rating scale that says your next life will be karmic payback hell. You are taken with measurements of all sorts, so much so that you often forget to fully live. You say that this loss doesn’t matter much, for living boldly, thoroughly, gives you far too much more to measure.
Each day I am certain something more slips away, forgotten, no longer able to be recalled, lost in the vast abyss of yesterdays. I would like to think this happens because something new, something better has taken its place, and I had no choice but to displace it. That is the convenient story I tell myself, although I am rarely convinced, and know that there is a good chance it is no more than a lie of sorts, but one that will slip away and be replaced by something better, or perhaps I will just forget that it was a lie in the first place.