Forget-me-not flower — @belleartmovement (english version)Belle ART Movement
I have a box of memories. I keep it in my bookshelf, near a block of courses from my first year of university and near some CDs full of old songs, some covered by the fog of time. It’s an ugly box, and to be honest, it doesn’t even look like one. It’s a rectangle made out of white metal, which opens and closes like a magnet. Now it barely stays closed because it’s stuffed with memories. And I’m only nineteen!
If I open it up, I’ll find birthday cards, notes, some pictures, shells and cinema tickets. It’s funny how I tried to create a succession of my life events putting together these small pieces. The Birth-Day cards will remind me, when I’ll be forgetful, that I once was a sixteen year old girl and that I had friends, who would sign themselves at the end, and jokingly were wishing we would stay the same. A funny request, if I say so myself. I’m not the same person I was yesterday, but a few years ago?
I keep things, not because I love the material part of them, but because I want to keep the memory of that person that gave it to me. A box full of memories, and I still won’t remember a lot of things. I won’t remember that well how I felt when I was holding hands with my friends while we were taking a walk and how I thought that amongst all the other people I was the luckiest to have them. I won’t remember how I felt when I sang an old song to a friend, without realizing that I won’t be able to listen to it again after that. I won’t remember how nervous I felt when I gave someone a letter of goodbye. I won’t remember the heath of the summer, when we were side by side in my bed, watching a movie we didn’t really care about, but we were laughing so much that our cheeks hurt. I won’t remember the feeling of seeing my father after a long day at school, and him waiting for me in the living room. I won’t remember how my mother was waiting for me every single time with the food ready and with a pie fresh out of the oven, laying on the stove.
I won’t remember much.
Or maybe I will, hardly, and I will be thinking that all the details are so fresh, but I will be wrong. Now becomes then, and then is buried by new memories. How many dreams haven’t I dreamt and forgot about? How many looks haven’t I changed and got lost? How many laughter haven’t I laughed and remained an echo?
There are moments, suspended in the air, we feel infinite and that we’ll never stop. These are the things I want to remember.
So, I will develop pictures, I’ll put them in an album, and I’ll be looking at them, trying not to forget anybody, and hoping that nobody will forget me. And if they do, I hope the new memories will bring them happiness on those days when they don’t recognize themselves in the mirror, but only in pictures from their youth.