I'm not even 50, I'm not supposed to forget people who I spent so much of my life with (they both lived into my 30s). And my swiss cheese brain now seems to be making up figments of imagination to replace them with. I'd rather have the fucking holes.
3:45 am, I'm wide awake and crying tears of anger and despair. This broken is too much to handle some days. And I seem to have answered to the question I keep asking myself - 'When it's all gone am I still me?' - with a resounding no.
ETA I've been feeling this a lot lately. NYC was home for a long time, and while I wasn't always there, I know I lost a lot of people to AIDs and a few 9/11. Only I haven't a clue who... just flashes of fury and pain that that shit happened. It's like I have fragments of an outline with most of the note cards lost. Or a busted hard drive that I can't recover. It's infuriating.