Some time ago, I read the story of two brothers and co-emperors, Caracalla and Geta.

The one with the more interesting name, Caracalla, decided to kill his brother Geta one day to rule the Roman Empire by himself.

The brothers had co-ruled for some time after their father’s death, but good times tend not to last too long. Caracalla wanted to be the head of the state just by himself.

He murdered his brother and tried to erase him from history by destroying his portraits.

When people in Alexandria made satires about the brother-killing, he invaded and wrecked the city.

Damnatio memoriae – condemnation of memory – was supposed to exclude Geta forever from official accounts.

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I haven’t written in three months, during which for some time I was so sick and unwell that I almost could not believe I would recover. My body is still weak, and I can see the tiredness on my face that doesn’t want to go away.

I didn’t want to write until maybe something incredibly positive happened, and I felt like a different, reborn person. Well, that is not necessarily the case, but at the moment, I am getting ready for my grand birthday party (which is taking place exactly a month after my actual birthday).

Perhaps I should focus on that instead of writing this.

My skin is still inflamed, and my joints sometimes hurt and betray me when I need them most.

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Sometimes, I wonder how, in the works of fiction, people in their thirties and older still look fondly at their first loves from their teenage years.

As a work of fiction, I mainly mean K-dramas.

It is common for them to have one love that will haunt them forever, which, in my case, is almost unimaginable. But in that universe, it seems like a universal truth. Maybe it is, and it is only my memory that fails and saves me so efficiently.

In the song BAILE INoLVIDABLE, which I am listening to all the time in my head these days, the main character still dances salsa with his love from decades ago when he ruminates.

The whole album Debí Tirar Más Fotos refers to memories that fade, though. You may have captured the moments more carefully to live with you a bit more vividly.

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There is a photo that lives in my memory, haunts me, and comforts me.

I do not need to look at it, I remember just that it was taken, almost ten years ago. I am there with my brother and other family members, and they are helping me to move from Warsaw to The Netherlands. To be exact, they are helping me to get rid of things that weren’t necessary for my survival abroad so I would be able to have a fresh, light start.

Books and clothes, old notes and pictures from the time when life felt so different.

My brother helped me to get rid of them, and they are gone now. I don’t know what happened to them, and I never missed them. But I miss that day, I remember what we did and that I was too weak to carry most things. My brother was very strong back then, nevertheless he is also gone.

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When I was very sick in December, probably quasi delirious, I reached out to several people who used to mean a lot to me.

I was alone, in a very vulnerable state, and I wanted to reconcile everything with everyone. I don’t think I expected my immediate demise while being weak and dramatic, but you never know.

The conversations were more or less civil, and nothing too thrilling happened. I am sure some people felt relief knowing I do not hold too many grudges against them, but sometimes, I guess, the forgiveness might also feel heavy on you.

On top of that, it potentially means that you might need to have awkward conversations with this person when you meet them accidentally.

With my body weakening, I guess you can only appreciate how your memory is also connected to the sometimes withered nature of our flesh.

If we carry memory in our neurons and our muscles, in my poor inflamed skin and every cell of our bodies, does it get burnt to the ground as well with the constant inflammation, deterioration and renewal as a natural and necessary process that we should not halt?

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So I made this effort; I went on this whole questionably necessary feverish spiritual journey. Nevertheless, now in sobriety, I still tend to think that some of the people I forgave are very lousy and would prefer if they stayed away from me.

Can this be considered a success? I think so. None of them were invited to my birthday party, which takes place in four hours (I had better start preparing).

All of them have their lives and exist on the peripheries of mine. They probably mostly forgot or will forget, just like me.

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I am back to writing around 72 hours later, still a little tired after the celebrations. I danced all night, laughed, and felt loved and sometimes even admired.

It is good for your soul, and I am grateful that I invested time and effort into relationships that hopefully will last.

I got a card with birthday wishes from some of those people with photos from last year taken with my dear friends. There is one person who is featured in many of those photos, who meant so much to me, and now lives only on the peripheries of my life and in my memories. Maybe if I look at them, they will last longer, but perhaps if I don’t, it will be easier to forgive and forget and become indifferent.

It is harmful to see the value in lack of forgiveness – because a grudge still holds a connection to someone who meant at least so much to you that they managed to hurt you?

But we do know that forgetting about someone will leave more space for new friendships and new connections; I just cannot ever let my heart become closed off and my memories just bitter, as long as they manage to exist.

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Forget by Czeslaw Milosz

Forget the suffering
You caused others.
Forget the suffering
Others caused you.
The waters run and run,
Springs sparkle and are done,
You walk the earth you are forgetting.

Sometimes you hear a distant refrain.
What does it mean, you ask, who is singing?
A childlike sun grows warm.
A grandson and a great-grandson are born.
You are led by the hand once again.

The names of the rivers remain with you.
How endless those rivers seem!
Your fields lie fallow,
The city towers are not as they were.
You stand at the threshold mute.