One day this will be nothing but a memory.

There is a strange experience available to anyone who keeps old notebooks. You find a page in your own handwriting, dated, laying out a fear in detail — and you have to work to remember what it was even about.

It did not stop mattering because you solved it. It stopped occupying the whole frame because the frame kept widening.

Memory does not simply store things. It resizes them, without asking, over a period nobody gets to choose.