the infinitesimals
the reason we forget so easily is because our lives are made up of incredibly tiny gestures - clumsy, unaristotelian, nothing things - that happen only because warm balls of mass are bound to spiral into each other at the rate at which they grow up too fast. who gets to decide, out of all the times you’ve awkwardly brushed up against strangers, out of all the times you’ve decided to look in a little bit closer for a little bit longer, that this is when it’ll matter? that this is what’ll royally fuck you up? that each nothing thing a person could ever forget to have done to you is all that’ll stick in the end?