I believe in memories; the wondrous and the downright horrifying. Now, believing in memories might seem like an unrealistic idea to believe in. This I completely accept; some people might think, “We all experience incredibly painful events in our lives. How is remembering something so horrible good?” This would be my answer: Memory is a curious thing. There is so much of each day that we do not remember. But there are scenes that we can revisit repeatedly; many of them, so random, of so little significance. Yet they stick, they linger, they creep into consciousness for no obvious reason. And then there are those memories that may have been so dear to us before, but sadly has vanished from our minds. But without these memories, people would be nothing, just empty shells of people they could have been.
The dictionary defines memory as the mental capacity or faculty of retaining and reviving facts, events, and impressions, or of recalling or recognizing previous experiences. This definition, however, reveals only a fraction of the truth about memory. Memory can be a friend, though a fickle one at best, or it can be a relentless enemy, ever haunting , even in sleep. But I believe memory serves as a funnel to the past.
Most of my early childhood is but a fog, filled with little snippets of memories: a family party which I rode around in a little red pedal car in a black dress and red shirt, or the Christmas I got SnoozeNSnore Ernie, the tea parties I would throw for my dolls and stuffed animals or even the first time I met my step mom. As I continue down the metaphoric road of my memory, I see myself enjoying elementary school to the best of my ability, happily being a junior bridesmaid in my cousin’s wedding, absolutely loathing middle school, and now loving high school and ready for new memories to be made. I have so many memories I would love to relive-prom, traveling to Europe, meeting my niece and nephew for the first time-and of course, those I...
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