The end of February always brings a certain kind of sadness to me: sharp, weighty and wordless like a falling dagger to the chest, hammering through the flesh and beating my heart to death. Out of all the months in the year, February is the most difficult to say goodbye to, because the farewell only acknowledges the arrival of a new month, my birth month, and that for me is more than terrifying.
I’m not afraid to age. I’m not oblivious of the fact that I should be thankful for another year that is added into my life. But still, I am scared. I am scared of the striking sensation that time is passing; that I am sinking further and further away from my memories and that just a few more years, all of these memories shall completely abandon my mind and none of them shall be left behind to remind me of who I was, of the kind of life I led and the kind of people I met along the road.
I’m not trying to say I know what’s going to happen. All I know is that each year is a magnet in reverse, pulling me away from everything that is solid in life and stretching my soul a million miles beyond the core of my identity, until I no longer know who I am or where I’m from, or what I’m doing in this lonely surface of the planet. I am reminded of a foreign word.
As more of your day repeats itself, you begin to cast off dead weight and feel the steady pull toward your center of gravity, the ballast of memories you hold onto, until it all seems to move under its own inertia.
So even when you sit still, it feels like you’re running somewhere. And even if tomorrow you will run a little faster, and stretch your arms a little farther, you still feel the seconds slipping away as you drift around the bend.
I find myself screaming for the goddess of memory.