Memory

There are some things that you remember, and some things that you don't.

Then there are those things that you think that you've forgotten, when actually they're right there in your head. Carefully wrapped, corners neatly folded in, cellotaped and tucked away in a corner.

You keep them there maybe because you're a hoarder, or perhaps to use as a later-date reference. What ever the reason may be, you think that someday you might want to look at them again. Not because they're pretty or sparkly or have shiny buttons, but because they've made you the person that you are.

Then one day, you fall sick and you're home alone. You've also got jelly legs. So there's no way you can walk to the room with the television or computer. So you sit in your brightly lit room, on your bed, huddled under a duvet or three, listening to a CD that someone kindly popped into your player before leaving the house. So you decide to open that little filing cabinet-like space in your mind. Not to hash it all out again but just to see that nothing has been tampered with. To see that it's all safe.

You take it all out and sift through all those memories with a silly little smile on your face. Scenes, people, places, moods, conversations flash through your mind. Some very vivid, some that you can just about make out.

And you realise that somehow a few things that seemed so different a couple of years ago aren't really different at all. That you've misjudged some people but were spot on about others. How your life would be empty without music because as time has passed you've begun to associate moods, places, people, heck, just about everything with music.

And then as suddenly as you decided to walk into this space, you decide that it's time to leave. So, you carefully wrap it all up again, replace the worn out cellotape, close that door, get rid of the dust on your hands, punch the pillow till it's just right and drift off into a comfortable sleep.

Set adrift on memory bliss...