I forget

 

-LittleFawn

(A Tale of Vanishing Shadows)                                                                                                                                                       

I forget what I was supposed to say. The thought slips through my fingers, a shadow scattering in the wind. I forget the words, even as I speak them. Mid-sentence, they evaporate, leaving behind a hollow silence that I can’t explain.

I forget what I was going to do. The purpose, the action, the place—it all dissolves into a formless haze. My mind feels like a crumpled map, its routes erased before I can follow them.

I forget something. I don’t know what it was. I don’t even know if it matters. Sometimes, I think of writing things down. But in the act of reaching for a pen, the thing I meant to capture has already escaped.

I forget people. Their names, their faces, their essence. An old friend drifts into my thoughts, tethered to guilt. Did I hurt them? Did I neglect them? I forget why I feel this way, and then I forget them entirely.

I lose control. I forget to stay calm. Anger blooms like wildfire, consuming everything in its path. When it burns out, I’m left holding the ashes, wondering what started it. What was I so angry about?

I forget the basics. I cook food but leave it untouched. I wash clothes but forget to dry them. The bills pile up—seen, acknowledged, and promptly forgotten.

Sometimes, my body betrays me. My hand slips, not by accident but with eerie intent. I forget how to walk. How should I place my feet? Are my movements unnatural? Am I walking like everyone else?

Eating feels alien. How do I pick up the spoon? How do I hold the glass without spilling? These mundane acts turn into puzzles, pieces missing from their frames.

I speak without purpose. Words tumble out, disconnected and strange. I reveal things I didn’t mean to, while the important thoughts remain trapped, lost before they can be formed.

I forget why I started writing this. What was I trying to say? The words on the page feel like echoes of someone else’s thoughts.

Do I have anxiety? Have I ever been checked? If I have, I can’t recall. Am I ill? Am I a patient? These questions haunt me, circling my mind like ghosts.

The forgetting is a relentless tide, washing away everything—small things, big things, crucial things. It’s not just memory slipping away; it’s me.

I forget myself. My existence feels fragile, like a faint outline in the mist. The reason for my being—why I am here, what I am meant to do—vanishes as soon as I try to grasp it.

But there is one thing I remember. I remember that I forget.

I know I am fading, piece by piece. I know I am disappearing, not from the world but from within.

And the most terrifying part?

I don’t know if I can stop it.