Tabula Rasa

I am scared. My gut is telling me that something is wrong. Perhaps it has been happening for quite a time now and I have talked about it in a few occasions. Yet this time around, it is getting the best of me. I tend to forget a lot. Petty as it may seem but it is a well-grounded fear for someone who values memories. I make them every day, from each time I wake up until I recall them at night. They are similar to the pages of a book, written with every vivid detail that can surpass all the fictional stories I have ever read. They have every character that played a role in my life, and I welcome them, good or bad. After all, nobody can make a good story without all the good elements. Yes, memories are the only ones I go back to whenever I have to make peace with myself; at times I want to comprehend the things I did and would do; and just so my present would no longer echo all the bad checks I cancelled and erased in the past. However, like all photographs, memories fade; like a fire, they dwindle down; and like all books, they fade. I do not want to wake up one day not knowing what happened. Blank.