In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives, to our memories, to the details around us.
Our dreams must be stronger than our memories.
You don't want to look back at your years with regrets. Regrets have no place in your memory jar.
To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.
It's a pleasure to share one's memories. Everything remembered is dear, endearing, touching, precious. At least the past is safe though we didn't know it at the time. We know it now. Because it's in the past; because we have survived.
Smell brings to mind... a family dinner of pot roast and sweet potatoes during a myrtle-mad August in a Midwestern town. Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years.
Forgiving does not erase the bitter past. A healed memory is not a deleted memory. Instead, forgiving what we cannot forget creates a new way to remember. We change the memory of our past into a hope for our future.
God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.
Our memories are independent of our wills.
The life given us, by nature is short; but the memory of a well-spent life is eternal.
Recollection is the only paradise from which we cannot be turned out.
Distance never seperates two hearts that really care, for our memories span the miles and in seconds we are there. But whenever I start feeling sad cuz I miss you I remind myself how lucky I am to have someone so special to miss.
Human memory is a marvelous but fallacious instrument. The memories which lie within us are not carved in stone; not only do they tend to become erased as the years go by, but often they change, or even increase by incorporating extraneous features.
I know for certain that we never lose the people we love, even to death. They continue to participate in every act, thought and decision we make. Their love leaves an indelible imprint in our memories. We find comfort in knowing that our lives have been enriched by having shared their love.
A strange thing is memory, and hope; one looks backward, and the other forward; one is of today, the other of tomorrow. Memory is history recorded in our brain, memory is a painter, it paints pictures of the past and of the day.
How we remember, what we remember, and why we remember form the most personal map of our individuality.
Let your memory be your travel bag.
Memory depends very much on the perspicuity, regularity, and order of our thoughts. Many complain of the want of memory, when the defect is in the judgment; and others, by grasping at all, retain nothing.
It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment - but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?
Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once. A complex vision leaps out of the undergrowth.
It seems to be a rule of wisdom never to rely on your memory alone, scarcely even in acts of pure memory, but to bring the past for judgment into the thousand-eyed present, and live ever in a new day.
Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us.
We each need to make peace with our own memories. We have all done things that make us flinch.
Our memories are card indexes consulted and then returned in disorder by authorities whom we do not control.
Our dreams must be stronger than our memories. We must be pulled by our dreams, rater than pushed by our memories.
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