The other day, I caught myself thinking that nothing much was happening in my life. Out of habit, I opened my gallery. Apple has this beautiful way of stitching together memories — little films from photos, each given a title. I began playing them, one after another, and slowly something struck me: my life is happening. I simply forget.

It's in the very nature of being human — to forget more than we remember. And because we forget, it creates the very need to remember. If we never forgot anything, there would be no need to remember at all.

Looking back at those moments, I realized it isn't that my life lacks meaning or events… it's just that I lose sight of them. I forgot that this year my friends celebrated my birthday in a grand way. I forgot that I visited the house where I lived ten years ago. I forgot that on the first day of this year, I launched my website, and the night before, I was coding it while also planning a surprise for someone special — a surprise that failed miserably. I forgot that I baked my first cake, that I read books late into the night, that I wrote articles which once felt necessary as though the world would be incomplete without them. I forgot the long walks where I spoke to myself as though I were two people.

I almost forgot I had once traveled to London. Imagine — me, standing inside the House of Commons. The very chamber from where men in powdered wigs and stiff collars once passed laws deciding what salt my ancestors could eat, what cloth they could weave, and what freedom they could not have. Now I was there, not as a subject, but as a guest, called to receive an award. A building that had once ruled over my forefathers' hunger and toil was now politely clapping for me. History does have a wicked sense of humor.

You start on the Piccadilly line. Tap your Oyster card, get the little beep, and slip into the Tube like a proper Londoner. Two stops later — Westminster. You climb up the exit stairs and suddenly it hits you — this is London. The Thames flowing by your side, Big Ben staring down like it owns the hours of your life, the Houses of Parliament right in front, and Gandhi's statue sitting calmly outside, dhoti, stick and all.

Inside: chandeliers hanging from carved ceilings, grand halls showing off their history, portraits of men who thought they ruled the planet. The House of Commons chamber — the famous green benches, padded and smooth. Sitting there, I wondered how many great figures had taken that same seat before me. Going into that Parliament felt like stepping into the cumulative history of several countries, which it once ruled.

I forgot not only these 'great' things, but also the long nights when conversation ran until morning, the last day of summer holidays that felt endless yet vanished like smoke, the all-nighters filled with youth, the video calls that for a while seemed like entire worlds.

Perhaps forgetting has its own purpose. It is not a flaw in our design — rather our most profound nature. Forgetting frees us to keep building new memories. It is nothing but a mechanism that allows us to build new memories upon the faded outlines of the old.

So it isn't that life is not happening. It is that life is happening so ferociously, so abundantly, that the human heart cannot possibly contain it all. It must let go to make room for more. And in that letting go lies the invitation — to live again, and again, and again.

We are not the archives of our lives, but the gardeners. We water the growing plants, even as the past sheds its leaves.

Even if my brain remembered everything, I'd be the most knowledgeable person in the world about what I had for lunch on Tuesday, April 7th, three years ago, and absolutely nothing else.