I was thinking today about how we exist in people's memories.

The Gaffer forgot me while doing the titles for The Soldier. He forgot to add me to the credits, and I was watching him do it, and thinking to myself, oh he hasn't added me yet. But I didn't say anything because I didn't want to be all prima donna, and I thought, oh he's going to put me last, no big deal. But then he forgot. So I had to mention it. It's stupid, but that hurt me.

It so so so wasn't personal. At all. But I thought, "how can he forget me I'm sitting right here???" And then I felt bad.

And then I got onto a train of thought about memory and stole some notepaper from his wee little notebook:

How does one stop worrying about being forgotten? It seems like a fine line between being absent and being annoying - a gap seemingly large enough semantically, but in actuality is a hair's breadth. And in that fear one begins to notice little things. Little moments of forgetfulness, a forgotten phonecall, a misplaced name, the infamous double-book. In any other situation it's innocent enough but now, weighed down by fear, guilt, distress, low self-esteem and terror of loss, each little infraction becomes a big incident, significant of something non-existent and manufactured in the landscape of a mind paralyzed by the uncertain future. It's an existential paranoia - if I am forgotten do I stop existing as the person I thought I was when I am remembered by you? A piece of history, a particular version of it, is gone with your memory.

Anyway, I overreacted, as per usual. I am just a huge fool and I am frustrated by the turn of events that seem to come one on the heels of the next.

ignis fatuus.