When I was young and poor,
when little was much,
when I was nimble and never tired,
and the hours of the day were deep and long,
where was the end that was already committed?...
Just the gift of forgetfulness gracious and kind
while I ran up hills and drank the wind-
time out of mind.
Which is it? Do we struggle to forget? Or not to forget? In the older years, we seem not able to forget that our "self ending" is coming, though we might long too as we did in our younger years. Paradoxically don't we also strive to remember that there really is "no self?" How glorious are the days when we merge into the river and the wind, our extinction into beauty a welcome relief.
If you could forget something, what might it be?