Memories - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The best of my memories as far back and forwards as I may reach, form the golden thread of both soul and spine.
Memories us together bring both new fuel and fire, igniting an everlasting flame that speaks of magic and legend.
Memories of vivid hue come dancing in as if the wind was their favourite tune, as if they ever ready to samba.
Let us build our memories of the best times and forgive the worst, for our future is together. That's the way it is when you love someone, that's the way it has to be. There is no perfect, only perfect for one another.
The brain has little concept of time, and so the painful memory is experienced as a current event. This is why, once we have come to terms with them and gained new perspectives on what happened, it is important to move on and recall the happy times instead. This way you deal with them, disarm them, and choose real health for yourself. This way you love yourself and set yourself free.
My memories, the good and painful, are photographs - and I can choose what kind of album I wish to build.
The negative memories come with a cost, as addictive as they feel, once lessons are learnt there is nothing in them of value. The positive memories come as a friend with a picnic basket, they are good and nourishing, supportive and kind. And so I choose to build myself this way, letting the bad ones wander off on their own and encouraging the good ones to blossom and grow. This way I become confident, well balanced and in control of me, able to appreciate each moment as a gift and to see a positive future.
Each raindrop is the drop that kissed your skin in those days that we were together, me and you, my baby boy. Each one is the same because they sing of these such treasured memories, of the comforting love that remains and the hopes I hold for your future. And so, I love the rain better than photographs, for each one is a perfect moment.
Memories are often invoked by a fragrance, for me it is the smell of potatoes being fried in old oil - then I am at the seaside, shingle underfoot, fishing boats glistening in the afternoon sun. Yet for me the strongest memory, the one that feels most like being sunk into one of those alternative reality machines, is the giggle from baby Hans. It is more delicate than wind-chimes and just as chaotic, just as melodic. In those moments I have Clarissa once more, newborn, fresh, an unknown future before her.