— Nirmal Shah.
From pins to pens, dates to events — we forget a million things. We do this to make space for new memories, ones our brain considers more important to keep. Like RAM in a computer, our brain clears the cache. To register new entries, it randomly decides which old ones to let go of, until someone or something jogs them back into our light.
Studies even say people who frequently forget things often have faster, more intelligent brains — their gray matter is wired differently, more competitive, hyperactive, and selective about what’s worth keeping.
But being forgetful isn’t always a sign of genius. It could also signal the early stages of Alzheimer’s — touch wood. The truth is, all of us knowingly or unknowingly let go of memories daily, making space for just enough checklists to function. Yet, those forgotten things don’t vanish. They stay, omnipresent, in a dimension we feel but cannot explain.
And there is one thing, beyond all the material objects in the world, that is both widely used and often forgotten — letters.
Ray
Ray was writing a letter one day, pouring his emotions onto paper. He had been through some of the toughest times of his life and longed for a warm hug from his wife, who at that moment was far away. The letter he was about to stamp and send would take days to reach her — and he feared it might already be too late.
Still, Ray picked up his pen and burned his feelings into the page until he felt empty, as if his soul had bled through the ink. He wrote so deeply that his words left imprints on the next sheet of paper. His wish was that Jane, his wife, would pick up where his words left off. He always felt Jane knew him so well they could complete each other’s sentences without speaking.
By the time Ray finished, the paper felt heavier than it was — weighed down by emotion. He sealed it neatly inside an envelope, as if tucking a newborn in a warm towel. On the front, in his careful handwriting, it read: “To Dear Jane.”
The postmaster knew Ray well. He was familiar with the white envelopes Ray often dropped off, always carrying the weight of his heart. Each time, Ray left reassured by the postmaster’s silent nod — his unspoken promise that the letter would be on its way.
That September morning, heavy rain poured as Ray handed over the envelope. He had carried it inside a zip-lock bag to protect it from the downpour — terrified that if even one drop blurred the ink, his feelings would be lost forever. But destiny had other plans.
The letter was tossed into a pile among hundreds of others — bills, summons, declarations, apologies, love notes. It sat there until it was sorted by dozens of fast, machine-like hands. But one small error changed everything: a wrong barcode sticker sent Ray’s letter to the wrong center.
And just like that, his words vanished.
Ray never knew. Weeks later, drowning in grief and unanswered questions, he pulled the trigger on himself. His memories, his pain, his love for Jane — splattered across the wedding photo he couldn’t bear to look at anymore.
No one could measure the weight of his letter. Twenty-five grams on a scale, but immeasurable in its emotional gravity.
Jane
Jane, too, had written a letter around the same time. Hers was returned to her unopened, by the time she had to vacate the home she couldn’t live in without Ray.
Her letter read:
“Loving Ray,
I know you have been hurting, and so have I. But it is more important that, despite our disagreements, we agree on one thing — we love each other. It is more important that we forgive than allow this hurt to win. I forgive you, Ray, and I long to be with you again. I will wind up my things here shortly and return home. I’m sorry for the pain we caused each other.
Forever yours,
Jane”
But Ray never got a chance to read it. His grief and disappointment won.
Osho once said: “Where there is no control on the start, and no control on the end, why do we believe there is control in the middle? Flow like the river. Life begins when we let go.”
Ray couldn’t let go. His pain was unbearable, too consuming. And like so many before him, he was swept away by it.
Influenced by Socrates, A Greek writer Euripides once wrote: “And why should we feel anger at the world? As if the world would notice?”
Why do we cling so hard to being right?
Accept it, being 'wrong' is human. It is the birthplace of discovery, growth, and learning. Without mistakes, we would still be in the stone age, playing with sticks and stones, we wouldnt have able to reach the moon and back, nor be able to click pictures of deep oceanic creatures we still have yet to explore, nor find the herbal medicines to our ever dying bodies in hope to prolong our lives for even a second more to be here, Yet even after centuries of evolution, we still cannot embrace the right to be wrong.
