Memory

Memories ... they form the tapestry that is our life; the many shades, the vibrant colours, the dull tones. We create memories with each passing moment. We remember, we recollect, we reminisce. As we chart forward in time believing that we create futures, we are merely walking back in time and creating pages of a life that is gradually becoming filled.

Memories are worth more than silver or gold; they are treasures beyond value for they are kept in a cove so dark and remote that only memory itself can discover, or fathom. They give meaning to the one who holds on to it and they can often be worth more than life itself. They kindle a flame within, a warmth, a radiance. They are spaces where the soul can leap in joy and find comfort in.

They give the certainty of existence.

Yet memory remains irresolutely remote, encased, and personal for no one else could possibly share that emotion that memory stirs. No one other could share this confines in which the soul dances. No memory would be identical even if it were a moment shared intimately by two - the memory would differ.

And like worn out threads memories fade. The tapestry withers in the billowing winds of time. It begins with the colours of the moment, the increasingly distant voices, the imperceptible faces, the absent emotions ... and when the memory crumbles all meaning that was once held dear is lost.