They come in different shapes and colors. Sometimes, they make you weak at your knees bending you towards the greater gravity yet, sometimes they make you learned, strong and better person.
I am not talking about the candy jar of my nanny but the vivid memories I keep in the vault of my forehead. While reading a biography of a director, I went way back my childhood memories. I wonder, how they have got starched with time turning into grave and faint sepia. I remember that there were several memories I had kept labelled for this conjuncture of my life to be recalled for time sake. the deeper i try to explore, more i get lost in empty lanes of my childhood. I faintly remember the cry of my mother on my first epileptic attack, what happened later has got erased with time. I have this similar memory of a night shout may be a decade later past the midnight when my room mate aroused me from sleep asking me if I just had the fits. The rest of fits got lost in the jolts of life.
Earlier this weekend, with my pals during the game of cards, we asked each other about the first adventurous memory we have. the memory of any adventure which brings the joy of doing it for the first along with the fears of doing it. To my surprise, I told them the story of a day when I must be 17 years old. I wonder, where were the first 17 years got lost. i dont even remember when my father must have beaten for me for the first time and for what. One of my friend could not recall any such event of her life. I could sense her mind racing to and forth drilling the time to find such memory.
Memories are naive and made of plastic. They can mold in any shape and form whichever way we want to. They say, time is the best healer. I now know why they call time as the best medicine for agony. Time erases the memory etched on your soul. We build new memories with old synapses. New circuits are formed in the circus of life.
My friend keeps a record of all the bad things happened to him. It was a suggestion of his shrink to maintain the diary of his ills. Nevertheless, they forget to suggest their clients to maintain a record of happy memories too. Every time he feels sick, he reads the diary he kept filled with agonies and feels more pathetic than ever.
How about we keep the records of our best memories we want to visit again and again. How about we create a log book of people we loved and lost in the midst of crowd. The visual diaries may not sustain forever but the written texts will leave their lasting imprints.
For the least, I am cherishing the few faces I love the most with this draft. For, I love freely.