And You don't Miss a Thing 'til You Cry when You're Driving Away in the Dark.

“It happens, baby." Dad nodded and patted me on the hand, and then he read my mind. "You forget all of it anyway. First, you forget everything you learned - the dates of the Hay-Herran Treaty and the Pythagorean Theorem. You especially forget everything you didn't really learn, but just memorized the night before. You forget the names of all but one or two of your teachers, and eventually you'll forget those, too. You forget your junior class schedule and where you used to sit and your best friend's home phone number and the lyrics to that song you must have played a million times. For me, it was something by Simon & Garfunkel. Who knows what it will be for you? And eventually, but slowly, oh so slowly, you forget your humiliations - even the ones that seemed indelible just fade away. You forget who was cool and who was not, who was pretty, smart, and athletic, and not. Who went to a good college. Who threw the best parties. Who could get you pot. You forget all of them. Even the ones you said you loved, and even the ones you actually did. They're the last to go. And then once you've forgotten enough, you love someone else.” 
― Gabrielle Zevin, Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac

there was something right about this. something beautifully chaotic yet pleasantly settling. like everything of the past is set in shale rather than cement. and that you can carry it with you if you so choose, but even those memories will one day fade. when they're actually gone, i won't miss them. but the process of leaving them behind leaves bruises and scars i'd rather not acknowledge. when did this happen? when did life... begin?