memories

When you have a hard day or when I see you slipping backward, I'm desperate to stop it, to make you see how amazing you are, to help you know that you have so much to look forward to. The things that happened to you won't haunt you forever.""But I'll remember them forever." I know there's no forgetting and I'm still not sure what to do with that. He sucks in a breath. "But they'll hurt less."I don't have to look at him to know there are tears on his face.

When you are joyful, when you say yes to life and have fun and project positivity all around you, you become a sun in the center of every constellation, and people want to be near you.

One must avoid getting stuck in the negative memories because these can block personal growth.

I remember when your name was just another name that rolled without thought off my tongue.Now, I can__ look at your name without an abundance of sentiment attached to each lettter.Your name, which I played with so carelessly, so easily, has somehow become sacred to my lips.A name I won__ throw around lightheartedly or repeat without deep thought.And if ever I speak of you, I use the English language to describe who you were to me. You are nameless, because those letters grouped together in that familiar form_.. carries too much meaning for my capricious heart.

There comes a moment in life when one must acknowledge that you just can't keep looking back into your past for reasons to keep someone in your present and future. Regardless of how much looking that cruel reality in the eye hurts...memories can't be enough.

...the answer is not in the damn blank page - it's in the days or years before and you have to dredge it up - exhume the past again ...

He noticed that she threw away the crumbled bus ticket on the street as soon as she got down. He picked it up and put it in his pocket along with his own a memorabilia of their first date together, just like a strand of her hair he would find later on his shirt and the broken pen cap that she would go on to search in the laboratory and so many other such small things which he would collect.

Sometimes, at the least opportune times, the past is an insomniac, alive and well.

Yesterday I smiled, tomorrow never came and today is what I'm living.

It's a cruel, ironical art, photography. The dragging of captured moments into the future; moments that should have been allowed to evaporate with the past, should exist only in memories glimpsed through the fog of events that came after. Photography forces us to see people before their future weighed down on them. Before they knew their endings.

The past is our ultimate privacy; we pile it up, year by year, decade by decade, it stows itself away, with its perverse random recall system.

It could be yesterdaywhen I was less in loveI thinkFor I didn__ see you in the mirrorbehind mewhile getting dressed.The way your hands couldn__ stay awayand our bodies always found their ways back to each otheras if they were meant to be togetherClose.But then it was today and I saw you againin the mirrorbehind me while getting dressedSo I go to sleep tonightalonewithout actually falling asleep because I__ scared of the moment I will wake upand realise it was just a dreamYou__e actually gone.Now all I can do is get through to another tomorrowhoping that I will be less in loveagainLike yesterdayBut not today.I was never really well with things at all.

I didn't mind what she called me, what anybody called me. But this was the room I had to live in. It was all I had in the way of a home. In it was everything that was mine, that had any association for me, any past, anything that took the place of a family. Not much: a few books, pictures, radio, chessmen, old letters, stuff like that. Nothing. Such as they were, they had all my memories.

Wilhelm__ smile reminded Harry of his father__ sad, resigned smile, the smile of a man looking backwards because that__ where the things that made him smile were.

You can never go back to a specific moment. That's why it's important to live in the present and not the past. Don't let foolish memories get in the way of the makings of new ones.

Night is when the whispers of the past become the echoes of the present.

Never would I have a more memorable time than the month I spent in the mountains, though I wonder, when I say this, if it appears so only because it is our nature to make a heaven out of places to which we can never return.

I set my face toward the sun again, and I think about my old life__he one I feel as though I__e abandoned somehow. It hurts to think of it that way. And even though I know it wasn__ perfect, I look back now, and all I see is perfection. Every soft whisper, every spoken word, every gentle touch__t__ all perfect. Time won__ let me see it otherwise. They__e all just perfect memories__erfect, untouchable moments that came and went so softly that they almost feel as if they were always just a dream.