Joys of forgetting

There was once a time when I religiously remembered all dates. Birth dates, anniversary dates, date of joining work, the date when I left for my first lone trip, break-up and patch-up dates. And many such dates of days that I held in high importance. And then, life got busy. Work took over. And I started to forget. Slowly, each of them began to fade from my memory. Initially guilty, I have finally come to what I feel is a mature conclusion. It’s perfectly alright to not remember dates. Because all they call for is compelled celebration. I, on the other hand, prefer to celebrate moments now. Instances. And thankfully, no moment is time bound, date or day bound. Like tiny fragments, they live in various little corners of my mind, jump out anytime and bring me to an honest smile whenever they like. What’s interesting is that anything can spark them off. Rain, fragrance, or a walk through a certain lane at a certain hour of the day. Like free spirits, my best moments return as memories at whim. Dates? They should just sit pretty on annual calendars.