This morning in Rimini, the sea smelled faintly of salt and diesel, and my wheels hummed over the promenade’s rough stone. I’d slept badly—too many tabs open in my head—yet the gulls were loud enough to nudge me into a decision. I would forget something on purpose today. That choice felt like a clean sheet under my fingers—cool, crisp, and ready for ink. I’m simplifying brain science here so it’s crystal clear; any complex ideas are pared down for you, not dumbed down.
Three Ideas We Rarely Question—And Probably Should
We’re told that a perfect memory is the ultimate superpower, like a shiny medal you can feel cold and heavy in your palm. We’re told memory works like a camera, snapping objective frames with a neat click you can almost hear. We’re told relying on notebooks, phones, and computers is a cop-out, the plasticky taste of cheating rather than the savour of growth. Each of these beliefs is tidy on the surface—smooth as glass—but if you press, you’ll feel the cracks.
A Story That Flips The Script
Years ago, over the clatter of cutlery and the warm aroma of ragù in Bologna, I heard about Massimo Inardi, a brilliant doctor who became a TV quiz champion in the 1970s—and then walked away. The show had turned into a “steamroller” for his life; the pressure hissed like a kettle left on too long. He could memorise fast and retrieve faster, but the constant loading of facts became a rough, sandpapery grind on his days. The point isn’t the glamour of winning—it’s the cost of never letting your mind breathe. That single takeaway still rings like a bell: remembering everything can make life smaller.
Memory Isn’t A Camera—It’s A Story We Rewrite
Neuroscientist Sergio Della Sala puts it without frills: memory isn’t a video archive; it’s reconstructive, meaning we rebuild the past using meaning and emotion as glue. He writes, “È una credenza diffusa… che la nostra memoria funzioni come una videocamera… La memoria è un processo ricostruttivo…”—in English, it’s not film; it’s a re-presentation shaped by what we care about. Picture sticky notes that pick up the scent of espresso from the café where you wrote them; the note changes because you changed. That’s why people can “remember” events that never happened, or misplace real ones in the wrong drawer. If you close your eyes, you can almost hear the soft shuffle of papers being re-filed each time you recall.
The Myth Of “Photographic Memory”—And Why Forgetting Saves Us
Films love the neat click of a “photographic memory”—think of counting 246 matches in a blink, the scene lit by a harsh neon hum. But Della Sala and the clinical literature say that kind of snapshot perfection is more myth than reality; what looks magical is often strategy, pattern, or sheer practice. Even Oliver Sacks’s lyrical case stories—wonderful to read, like running your hand over old leather—are, well, stories, not lab reports. When memory becomes too sticky, like caramel on your fingers, life gets messy: Borges’s Funes could not forget, and his world became unliveably detailed. We need oblio—healthy forgetting—to clear surfaces and move.
My Wheelchair, My Calendar, My Peace
As president of Free Astroscience here in Emilia-Romagna, I juggle events, emails, and star-talks; the keyboard’s clack is the soundtrack of my afternoons. When I tried to hold it all in my head, I felt like I was breathing through cloth. The day I began exporting facts into tools—mnemonics where helpful, but mainly a humble calendar, a notes app, and a paper planner with toothy pages—I noticed a quiet in the room. Offloading details wasn’t laziness; it was kindness to my future self. And it left space for what mattered: the smell of rain before an outreach night, the question in a child’s voice, the idea that lands with a soft thud and stays.
So, What Exactly Is Forgetting Good For?
In plain terms, forgetting makes learning possible. By letting go of trivia, you free the bench for stronger patterns and clearer concepts—like wiping condensation from glass so the horizon appears. Your brain isn’t a warehouse; it’s a living garden where pruning helps sunlight reach the leaves. You can almost hear the snip of the shears. Tomorrow’s you depends on what today’s you chooses not to carry.
Try This Today: A Tiny Ritual Of Release
Right after lunch—when the kitchen still smells of tomato and basil—grab a scrap of paper. Write three things you don’t need to remember: an address already saved, a meeting that’s in your calendar, a worry with no action. Say out loud, “I choose to forget these.” Then file what’s needed and tear up the rest; listen to the soft rip, like static fading. Notice the lightness in your shoulders. Do this for two minutes a day for a week and watch the mental echo quieten.
But What About Important Memories—Won’t They Fade?
Here’s the twist you can feel like cool water on a hot day: important memories strengthen when they’re connected to meaning, emotion, and use. Della Sala notes that we store the sense of experiences, not a sterile snapshot; rehearsing the meaning—why it matters—keeps it vivid. It’s not brute force; it’s better storytelling. Imagine the warm grain of a wooden table where your family laughs; that texture returns because the feeling brings it back.
The Gentle Art Of External Memory
I teach students to build an external brain that feels human, not harsh. A paper notebook for reflective thoughts (the fibre catches the pen, slowing you down), a digital calendar that pings softly rather than shrieks, and a daily “forget list” that you physically discard. First, park what doesn’t require you; second, tag what truly does; third, rehearse meaning for the few things worth keeping. The room will sound different—less alarm bell, more steady tick of a clock you can trust. Tomorrow, swap one more mental load for an aid that fits your style.
When Remembering Hurts, Letting Go Heals
There are memories that scrape like sand in a shoe—small frictions that, over kilometres, become blisters. Forgetting isn’t denial; it’s pacing. You don’t throw away the shoe; you empty the sand. Sometimes that looks like rewriting the story with a kinder voice, sometimes like seeking support so the echo in your head softens. In the quiet after, you can hear your own pulse, steady and present.
A Note On Simplifications (And Why I Use Them)
I’ve simplified several ideas here—eidetica becomes “image-like memory,” reconstructive memory becomes “we rebuild the past,” and mnemonics means “memory tricks” like vivid images or locations. I do this so the concepts feel like smooth pebbles in your hand, not sharp edges. If you want the deeper dive, Sergio Della Sala’s work and thoughtful commentary lay out the nuance with care; the core claim remains: forgetting is a feature, not a bug. You can almost smell the ink of the book as you turn the page into that future.
What I’m Taking With Me (And What I’m Leaving)
From Bologna’s clatter to Rimini’s surf, I keep one lesson that tastes as clean as cold water: choose what to carry. Memory isn’t a trophy cabinet; it’s a backpack for the next hill. If you listen, your mind tells you when the straps bite. Lighten it a little today, and notice how the road ahead sounds—less gravel, more song.
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