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I met a forgotten man once; a rare individual who hadn’t changed a bit since he disappeared from Above. He was exactly how he had been before, right down to the neat pressed lines in his trousers and his shiny shoes. Yes, shiny shoes, down here. He remembered himself so clearly that even the muck couldn’t touch him.

Most are not like him, though. The forgotten are usually very different indeed. Once you’re forgotten, you can change, there’s nothing holding you together any more. You become on the outside what you always were on the inside, unless you remember your outside well enough, and for most that turns out to be… well, it can be good or it can be bad, but it’s always something, and it’s not often exactly human.

Those who are remembered keep more of themselves; the memories are like glue, holding them together. But it keeps them tied to what they were, so they can never be free. They can’t go anywhere they’ve never been before, and they can never change.

It makes me wonder… is it better to be forgotten or remembered?

And then it makes me wonder… which am I?

© Kari Fay

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