I found it both funny and disappointing at the same time, how I wrote short pieces in the past, some questions, or some phrases that stroke a chord, that I never had the chance to go back to once again, to amplify and express how those flakes of thought meant to me during different points in time. It’s funny how this just confirmed how strikingly thoughtless, maybe, I have been becoming. It’s thoughtless in the sense that important experiences lay lesser meaning each day because of the apparent deprivation of constant reflection, an activity renowned for its magic in stretching experiences, giving life to the meager and the mediocre. It’s disappointing how each day, at least to me, is shrunk down to mere flakes that hold little to no taste, because of my own doing, how I let only blocks of words, or perhaps a picture or two, depict a day. It’s even a greater shame when milestones and significant events seemed to taste now as low as the others. I’m problematizing this because my memory is poor. Many would look at a word, a phrase, or a picture, and see a flash of memories along with it. To me, it also does the same effect. I see flashes. Feel it as it flashes. But, I wanted to see the little things as well, the things that brought light and beauty or even darkness to a day. I’m not doing this. I’m not taking pictures of the little things. I’m not writing down all the little things. If the little things are valuable to me, should I start attempting to immortalize those from now on, and sleep in peace, knowing that any important bits and details of memory won’t slip away from me? Or should I let it be, because this is just the way things should be? The ones that made us feel the extremes would stay longer. The ones we built that added colors and shade to the extremes sometimes slip away from us forever.