Those little blue forget-me-nots…

“Sometime in the future I will meet her again and tell her how much I love her, only that it won’t mean so much to her anymore, probably nothing at all.” Are these lines from a movie? God knows.
If God was really there…okay, well, I shouldn’t go there as I promised my therapist that I won’t, not even if I was just talking to my dog. Anyway, the issue is that I hate it when I forget names, faces, quotes from books and movies and so on. People forget things, it’s natural, she said. Well, I hate that they do, I hate it more when I do. So, she asked me if I hated something  more specific than mere human forgetfulness. It got me thinking. I like visiting her, my shrink, though I don’t prefer to call her that because it reminds me of “shrinking violets”; frankly, I hate it, I don’t feel too comfortable thinking of all the fancy terms that people I know might be using to refer to me in their own private lives, when they are too lazy to put just that bit of effort into at least pretending to recollect my name. As they grow up, some human beings tend to develop mechanisms, mental contraptions, to adapt to the ways of the world; in this context, they learn to utter out loud, with the airs of supreme conviction, four words: “I-forgot-his-name”, just so that their soul which is hiding in some dark, depressing, clammy closet of the apartment, or the castle, or whatever, could hear it and be fooled, for the mind of its owner is deadly ambitious to lead the rest of the people in his company, also, to believe that he is so accomplished to allow himself to think of another human being
as “not worth remembering” even when the reality is that almost every single day he is haunted by this person’s memories. So when such people are supposedly talking to their friends, family, friends of friends like this: “Hey mate, you remember that guy from high school. Oh damn, I-Forgot-His-Name…the shrinking violet…um, the guy who was too shy to open his lunchbox at school…yeah, I think I saw him somewhere yesterday”, then I think to myself, “Oh, it is indeed shameful, so painful, human folly.”
Today, I met my therapist again, and I told her NOT how much I loved her but something else. I said, “What I hate the most is not when people tend to forget but when people pretend to forget.”