Memories - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
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.
She approached the biggest tree in the garden, a gentle smile graced her lips. The pleasant wind was like a music of old memories to her. She touched the tree, tracing old drawings that she and her childhood friend did on that very tree long ago. She had been overseas for too long, she couldn't wait to see her childhood friend again. She had come back now, and she would never leave again.
The smell of disinfectant awakened memories long forgotten, echos of those long ago hospital visits jarred her mind. Suddenly being forced to swim once more in the tide waters of the past, she walked down the corridor with attitude of a soldier returning to the battlefield.
I used to never look at my best photographs, always afraid that they would become worn, sun bleached or damaged. I was mistaken. These pictures are just conduits to my best memories, the ones that are not fantastic enough or traumatic enough to leave a permanent mark on their own. My recollections are quite the opposite of these celluloid stills, unless I visit them often they will fade; and with them the very best of everyone who has blessed my life will vanish from my mind also- as if none of it ever happened. It was in those quieter moments of joy I saw the people beneath their troubles. I saw my mother's love and my fathers child-like spirit. I need those memories to stay with me, I need them to soothe me when the bad ones threaten to erase all traces of those people I still hold dear, even in their absence. They are the evidence of the beautiful souls that belong even to those who made the worst mistakes. And who am I to judge? Enough stress can change the best of us, even me.
The driftwood ridges eddy and swirl like the cream in my morning coffee. It is a sculpture carved by the ocean and deposited on the sand. Back in my metropolis apartment it will be assumed to be an expensive trinket from an upmarket store, especially when surrounded by white seashells. But every time it catches my eye I will hear the sea and feel the sand that is coating my toes; and for that moment I will here again, home.
From the air alights a duck. Cory almost jumps. Ducks and beetles – the two things you forget can fly. It lands with a splash making a long wake behind it, the ripples spreading out like those behind a speed boat, meeting the banks before rebounding and fading. It's a mallard, its green head iridescent in the light, eyes like black beads. Suddenly he wishes he had a pocket full of bread so he could feed it. For a moment he's lost in a transitory evocation of his childhood. Saturday mornings – a walk to the park with the stale bread mother had saved all week.
The Bee Gee's were blaring out of the subwoofers onto the sidewalk, conjuring up memories of 1970's dance floors, flared pants and platform shoes.
The gentle scent of the roses kindled memories of summers gone in her Grandfather's rose garden.
Leanne had had that shy look young women often wear, but it was never morose. Always behind those slightly pursed lips was a smile just waiting to be tempted out. I never wanted to guess where she was from in case I got it wrong; I liked her. Sometimes she'd look my way and I generally pretended not to notice, too much interest and I think she would have run. But when I did return her glances I didn't have to try to smile, it just came naturally. In those moments she would blush ever so slightly and I'd imagine her being my girl. But some people are worth the wait and she was of them. I didn't even know if she was allowed to date a white guy. But that day I took a chance and invited her to the movies I saw something flicker in her eyes that I never wanted to die...
The snow alighted on Dean's face softer than the kisses his mother used to plant, and just as cold as the memories had turned. In this swirl of white the world was washed anew, like a new page, but he didn't want it. Under this pristine layer of crystalline water was the path he trod as a child, walking with her hand in hand. He wanted to turn the pages back and dwell on the fine details: the crows feet around her eyes that deepened when she smiled, how she always wore Dad's rubber boots with four layers of socks rather than buy her own, how she never got too old to splash in the puddles. But life was pulling him forward into the unknown with one hand and erasing his past with the other. His thoughts were thicker than the blizzard, "She's gone and who cares? The colours of spring will come but she won't." He turned around to see his prints, he wasn't there anymore but they were. He figured when he got home he'd look for hers, her letters, her favourite novels, her recipe book.
This place seems so foreign now. The narrow streets flow like rivers, winding around hills and fields rather than cutting a roman line through them. For the most part the lanes are one car wide and the corners blind, obscured behind the hawthorn hedgerow that has been growing unchecked through June and July, giddy with the sunshine and rain. I remember the white blooms and how they are so often over hung by spreading trees, darkening in the sunshine faster than I can tan. I recall the bird song and the gentleness of the sun, even in summer. Even the aroma takes me back to my mis-spent youth. But I've been gone too long and now this is like a half-forgotten dream. The good parts aren't as good as the memory and the bad parts are more frustrating. I'm just not used to it. As much as I want to savour the hear and now I can't wait to board the plane for home; back to straight roads and summer heat that cooks your head.
In the countryside the green had meant nothing to me. The grass was green, the trees were green and the bread was green half the time. I couldn't wait to leave, couldn't wait to leave that penetrating winter chill behind me and head for central heating, no garden and granite counters. Isn't that why I worked my ass off in school? Now my world is just grey: grey concrete, grey roads and grey skies. Sometimes I will turn a corner to find the city has planted a tree. Just one spindly sapling can transport me home, fill my lungs with fresh air and remind me of those I left behind. On these occasions I take a leaf for my pocket and I don't care who sees, taking a leaf isn't illegal, yet. Then at home I dry it between my old doorstopper dictionaries before digesting it to a skeleton and mounting it on green card. Now the forest of home is on my walls. Every leaf is my mother's smile or my father's bad jokes. How tired of them I was, how tired without them I am now.
vivid, clear edged, bright as a colour print, briefly recalled, startling, flash, evoke memories, memories stirring
In less than five minutes, I was outside in the humid and dark weather. The sky was filled with gray clouds. It was suffocating, with the dark clouds pressing in as if to crush you, and then pressing the point with a sudden flash of lightning, thunder rumbling like a hungry monster a split second later. It is a dead thing, the sky, it settles sprawls, dark and heady, overwhelming, dreary and dreadful like a cemetery stone. Even though, the sky seems threatening and terrifying, I see a gigantic doorway to adventures and dreams. The sky I believe is a large magical surrounding full of light and dark, life and art. Thinking about all of this reminds me of something Eric told me. It was a stormy day, just like this one, and I was scared of the sky. I didn’t think something so beautiful and mesmerizing could be something so mysterious and so terrifying.
Eric had said, “A ascending abyss, is what the sky is, Alice. The sky reflects our very being and serves as a lens for the yin and yang in all of us. The sky is a gateway to infinity, which we instinctively perceive when looking into it, and feeling amazed. The sky is mysterious, unknown, and beautiful. The sky is as beautiful as it is deadly, Alice. It can be as bright as your wildest dreams but dark as a nightmare. It can set you free, or trap you in invisible barriers that confine and leave you heavy with desperation.” Back then; I was just a child, so immature and insecure. I had no idea what he was talking about. But now that I think of it, I wonder what he meant by ‘the yin and yang in all of us.’ Even now, it doesn’t make sense.
The happiness is infectious. It starts as a tingle in my fingers and toes, much like the feeling I have when I'm anxious, but instead of worrisome it's warm. I feel it pass through me like a warm ocean wave, washing away the stress of my day to leave me refreshed inside. As the wave fades I savour the memory of its gentle touch. The feeling is a blissful evocation of time spent with you on the beach. How I loved those days when we walked on the sand and simply talked, laughed and made silly jokes. Those were the days my love, and I enjoyed every minute.
The leaves scud over the ground and take small flights into the air. As I toss my head back and raise my eyes to the sky a smile spreads from freckled cheek to cheek. The branches sway like the arms of a soccer crowd and it their chaotic dance they are hypnotically beautiful. My mind relaxes and I feel the happiness of my life bubble up from within. The light I keep inside begins to escape from my pores. Were it not for the passers by I would spin like a little girl again, arms out wide and fingers spread, but instead I keep my hands in my pockets and inhale deeply. This wind carries the fragrance of the woodland, the essence of my childhood days...
His tongue was the sweetest; every word uttered by him would always leave me weakened and more deeper in love than before. These were the memories I cherished most.
There were times when I would look into his bright eyes, down with blue wondering if he meant it when he said "I Love You". I continue to tell myself that I fell in love too easily so it's only a matter of time for him to leave me for someone else to say- he's tired of my love.
He did. Now are the times I'm living with regrets; now are the times I am gloomy, yet somehow there is hope within me that he'll come back.
Well, they can be inviting
But some are altogether
As we die, both you and I
With my head in my hands
I sit and cry."
Her heart is an archive of old records that used to play his worst lullabies—of spilled liquor and drunken smiles.
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. Then I dwell there, mind sinking into my own self-made delusion.
They say that the strongest link to sparking a memory is through one of the six senses - not sight, taste or touch, not even sound, but smell. Walking passed Newman's Bakery always enticed me to recall my friend Clara, we'd always come here for nickel sweets.
When I open the mahogany box beneath my bed, I'd remember to touch the pearl earrings my grandmother had given me because it still smelt like the perfume she'd worn before it had gone out of stock.
And when I would walk about the house, I'd stare at my daughter's door. I will always be reminded of how she loved the smell of flowers, because they were everywhere. I had purposely put them there. I miss you, Emily, mommy hasn't forgotten you. And I never will. "Happy birthday..." I say, as I lay a lily down to the floor, and slide it under her door.
Every detail of that day was etched into my brain like an Etch a Sketch, except if it was shaken, I’m more than sure that the memories would remain.
Memories are as preserved flowers in saffron pages, the gentle reminder of something passed. It brushes through the subconscious, recalling memories that bring out the deepest spark of nostalgia of the soul.