What are memories…?

What are memories? Can a standard definition work in reality? Like, memories are what we remember about something in our past. While theoretically true, it sounds so vague and impersonal. But memories are extremely personal. They are the little bread crumbs we have left on our way, in the hope that we may one day trace our way back and use those crumbs for crutches. I feel memories are closer to crumbs than anything else: They are brittle; and can be eaten away by a predatory Time. They can simply disappear from one spot and emerge elsewhere. I have the worst grasp over my memories. They are vaporously elusive: visible, yet barely so. They are misleading in ways that I have not yet understood fully. They are half-truths that I hardly question. I am someone who leaves the past where it belongs: Right there in the past. I have failed time and again to transform into someone who truly carries her past with her, irrespective of whether that past is desirable. Yet, I am not devoid of those moments when I catch myself swirling in the whirlpool past. But no image, no word, no face, no life holds my attention too long in this swirl of my own thoughts and actions. There is that moment of intense shame that I only vaguely remember now; there are those moments of passion that I almost completely fail to sense now. Then, there are those people who have come and gone like people on a train. I feel like the train: Moving too fast mostly, stopping briefly to encounter new faces and lose old ones. Then I am off again. I have often envied those with pristine memories. Like little pieces of reflective glass that they can sift through, pick up and gaze into for a version of themselves. It is an enormous gift and a terrible curse all rolled into one. My memories, on the other hand, are like random patterns on a kaleidoscope, forever changing; forever fluid. 

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.