Love in the past is only a memory. Love in the future is only a fantasy. True love lives in the here and now.
Too much to take in, too much to purge. Why must every memory, once sweet, dead end in such ugliness?
With you a part of me hath passed away; For in the peopled forest of my mind A tree made leafless by this wintry wind Shall never don again its green array. Chapel and fireside, country road and bay, Have something of their friendliness resigned; Another, if I would, I could not find, And I am grown much older in a day. But yet I treasure in my memory Your gift of charity, and young hearts ease, And the dear honour of your amity; For these once mine, my life is rich with these. And I scarce know which part may greater be,-- What I keep of you, or you rob from me.
The two offices of memory are collection and distribution.
The mind has a complex life that can seem quite autonomous - dreams, obsessions, unwilled memory are all instances of this.
There is something miraculous in the way the years wash away your evidence, first you, then your friends and family, then the descendants who remember your face, until you aren’t even a memory, you’re only carbon, no greater than your atoms, and time will divide them as well.
I try to remember the things that keep me peaceful, happy, and compassionate. I constantly write notes on my phone about little discoveries I make in terms of perspective and habitual thought patterns. My memory seems to let me down, so this really helps me.
I tried. I tried to burn that memory of my regret. But I wasn’t dead yet, I was just on my way to dying, and it’s harder to burn memories when you’ve still got life left. When you’re alive you have to learn how to live with things like regret.
Within the memory of many of my townsmen the road near which my house stands resounded with the laugh and gossip of inhabitants, and the woods which border it were notched and dotted here and there with their little gardens and dwellings, though it was then much more shut in by the forest than now.
When the mind stops searching, when it stops wanting refuge, when it no longer goes in search of security, when it no longer craves more books and information, when it ignores even the memory of desire, only then will Love arrive within.
But memory is an autumn leaf that murmurs a while in the wind and then is heard no more.
part memory part distance remaining mine in the ways that I learn to miss you
Sometimes he felt sure that the key to happiness was a poor memory.
Trump did more interviews, he explained his agenda more than any political presidential candidate ever has, in my memory, and he has tried to stick to it as people perceive it.
A person without a memory is either a child or an amnesiac. A country without a memory is neither a child nor an amnesiac, but neither is it a country.
it it strange, suddenly having a memory come back out of nowhere. you think you're going crazy; you wonder where this recollection has been hiding all your life. you try to push it away, because you think you've hammered out the whole timeline of your life, but then you see that one extra moment, and suddendly you are breaking apart what you though was a solid segment, and seeing it for what it is: just a string of events, shoulder to shoulder, and a gap where there is room for one more.
Memory only becomes interesting through its struggle with forgetfulness.
Memory is the happiness of being alone.
The mind must be trained, rather than the memory.
Other than my memory being a bit woolly and my knees being a bit creaky, I don't really think there's anything I can't do.