On the Lightness of Forgetting

I used to keep a journal. Every night, faithfully, I wrote down what had happened - who I had spoken to, what I had eaten, which thoughts had visited me like uninvited guests. Then one year I stopped. Not from laziness, but from a suspicion: perhaps remembering everything is not the same as understanding anything. Forgetting, I have come to believe, is not failure. It is the mind's way of composting. What remains after the forgetting is what actually mattered. Everything else was just noise dressed up as significance. I have forgotten the names of most people I once called friends. I remember the quality of light in certain rooms. I think this is honest.