My Memories Have Just Been Sold
There are some faces that you will never forget.
It's amazing how much I can remember. Memory is a fascinating thing in general and by most people's standards, I have a pretty good one. So it's amazing how much I can remember. But no matter how much that is, the truth of the matter is that I've forgotten even more.
I don't remember the score of the first soccer game I ever played. Or the last. I can't tell you what the flavor of the cake was for my 7th birthday. I don't remember how old I was when I was able to rest my elbow on the door of a car and have my fingertips touch the top of the frame. The list can go on and on, full of mundane details that will prove eternally elusive.
I don't understand why some things galvanize and others don't. There seems to be some element of happenstance to it. I could just be thinking about it the wrong way though. Those mundane things might not even matter. I wouldn't be able to tell you if they did because I can't recall them and that might just be the beauty of it all.
The monotony of life is punctuated by spikes of the extra-ordinary: the uncommon, unusual, unfamiliar and unprecedented events that change everything that comes after it and how you view what has come before. You always remember those things. That's the easy stuff.
Then there's a host of other memories that are no more important than the next. Little things. Things that you would think take some kind of effort to store but stick as easily as remembering the color of your first car. Like remembering I put I dent in my wooden bat because I was using the fire hydrant as a tee for my baseball and got more fire hydrant than ball on one swing. Remembering that the walls of the townhouse I grew up in were not only white, but more specifically Dover white.
Faces and people seem to be what stick the most. There might be a twinge of irony in that for myself since I've never been much of a people person.
And how many faces will I remember who don't remember mine? How many will remember mine without me being able to recall their own? Sometimes it's so much of a one way street.
The miniscule details, they're usually the things you can keep and call your own. Everyone remembers the big picture things, those earth shattering and world redefining events whether microcosmic or macrocosmic.
Every memory is my own. I made every single one.
It's amazing how much I can remember. Memory is a fascinating thing in general and by most people's standards, I have a pretty good one. So it's amazing how much I can remember. But no matter how much that is, the truth of the matter is that I've forgotten even more.
I don't remember the score of the first soccer game I ever played. Or the last. I can't tell you what the flavor of the cake was for my 7th birthday. I don't remember how old I was when I was able to rest my elbow on the door of a car and have my fingertips touch the top of the frame. The list can go on and on, full of mundane details that will prove eternally elusive.
I don't understand why some things galvanize and others don't. There seems to be some element of happenstance to it. I could just be thinking about it the wrong way though. Those mundane things might not even matter. I wouldn't be able to tell you if they did because I can't recall them and that might just be the beauty of it all.
The monotony of life is punctuated by spikes of the extra-ordinary: the uncommon, unusual, unfamiliar and unprecedented events that change everything that comes after it and how you view what has come before. You always remember those things. That's the easy stuff.
Then there's a host of other memories that are no more important than the next. Little things. Things that you would think take some kind of effort to store but stick as easily as remembering the color of your first car. Like remembering I put I dent in my wooden bat because I was using the fire hydrant as a tee for my baseball and got more fire hydrant than ball on one swing. Remembering that the walls of the townhouse I grew up in were not only white, but more specifically Dover white.
Faces and people seem to be what stick the most. There might be a twinge of irony in that for myself since I've never been much of a people person.
And how many faces will I remember who don't remember mine? How many will remember mine without me being able to recall their own? Sometimes it's so much of a one way street.
The miniscule details, they're usually the things you can keep and call your own. Everyone remembers the big picture things, those earth shattering and world redefining events whether microcosmic or macrocosmic.
Every memory is my own. I made every single one.