Lost Ideas

I wish my memory didn’t go on strike so often. It makes me look so incredibly foolish when I’m standing in the middle of the room, eyes squinched so tight, nose wrinkled in concentration, hands waving slowly and aimlessly in front of me. As if moving those hands through space will trigger the synapses in my brain to start firing again. As if that blank in my head will suddenly fill with the lost ideas coming back home.

If I had a dollar for every idea that’s slipped through my fingers, I could pay you to remember things for me.