A Bed of Memories


Memories. We collect them all our lives like roses from a bed of flowers. Like shells from the sea floor.
Usually, they bring a smile on our face. As we relive those moments, often innocuous and barely noteworthy. Yet, they are the ones that manage to fill our hearts up with emotion.
Sometimes, these very memories leave a bitter taste in our mouths.

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Memories. We collect them all our lives like roses from a bed of flowers. Like shells from the sea floor.
Usually, they bring a smile on our face. As we relive those moments, often innocuous and barely noteworthy. Yet, they are the ones that manage to fill our hearts up with emotion.
Sometimes, these very memories leave a bitter taste in our mouths. We go to great lengths to avoid some memories. Even the good ones. Those hurt more.
They make you feel the magnificence of time. Throw the differences in sharp relief.
It never ceases to amaze me.
Last year, I would’ve celebrated memories with my friend or some loved one. Today, in their absence, the very same memory chokes me and fills my heart with longing and sorrow.
It’s a never ending circle.
I had mistakenly believed that it was an error on my part to make myself vulnerable with people who I knew were not trustworthy. I thought guards would safeguard me from any pain and suffering.
Today, I realised that guards only jail you inside the confines of your mind. You are never really free. And it is not about being trustworthy; it is simply a passage of time. What comes has to go.
Just because people don’t remain doesn’t mean they never were loyal, trustworthy and truthful. Their time was up. That’s all. In my life, that is.
That shouldn’t stop me from opening up, being vulnerable and making memories.
After all, when I am 80 years old, a frail lady, these memories will serve me company. They will be the stories I could tell kids and grandkids.
And thus, life goes on.

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