•Memories are just a spark from the fire that you have in your heart from the love you have for the person you shared them with. A flash of warmth that comes with the knowledge that at that very moment life is perfect, a glimmer of hope that this happiness will last forever.
These memories sustained him, but not so easily. Too often they reminded him of where he was when he last summoned them. They lay on the far side of a great divide in time, as significant as B.C. and A.D. Before prison, before the war, before the sight of a corpse became a banality.
I'm chasing a decade old ghost. Searching beneath the rafters of a cobweb-filled haven lined with old memories which my brain cannot accept are dead. The light of nostalgia is burning bright inside my heart. Ignoring the emptiness around me, and hoping for a resurrection of love.
There was once a house built out of memories and inside this house lived a woman called The Memory Snatcher. This woman was my Aunt Beydan. She was a sorceress and as a child I feared she would stalk me in my sleep and steal all my memories until I could no longer remember who I was.
Aching familiar in a way that made me wish I was still eight. Eight was before death or divorce or heartbreak. Eight was just eight. Hot dogs and peanut butter, mosquito bites and splinters, bikes and boogie boards. Tangled hair, sunburned shoulders, Judy Blume, in bed by nine thirty.
When nothing else subsists from the past, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered...the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls...bearing resiliently, on tiny and almost impalpable drops of their essence, the immense edifice of memory
Küçük şeyleri unutamayanlar, en geri hatıraları da unutamayanlardır. Hafızalarının bu bahtsız kuvveti karşısında hiçbir memleket, hiçbir vatan tutamadan her yeri, her şeyi severek öleceklerdir.
É possível avançar por ruas durante toda a vida, perder as forças nas pernas, cair de joelhos e morrer, transformar-se lentamente, com a chuva, com os anos, no empedrado da calçada, diluir-se entre as pedras, como pó, como água, desaparecer.
Time goes on, and your life is still there, and you have to live it. After a while you remember the good things more often than the bad. Then, gradually, the empty silent parts of you fill up with sounds of talking and laughter again, and the jagged edges of sadness are softened by memories.
Who can ever affirm, or deny that the houses which have sheltered us as children, or as adults, and our predecessors too, do not have embedded in their walls, one with the dust and cobwebs, one with the overlay of fresh wallpaper and paint, the imprint of what-has-been, the suffering, the joy?
لوگ مرجاتےہیں مگر اُن کی یادیں ہمیشہ باقی رہتی ہیں
Too many years fighting back tears. Why can't the past just die? Wishing you were somehow here again, knowing we must say goodbye. Try to forgive, teach me to live, give me the strength to try! No more memories, no more silent tears, no more gazing across the wasted years. Help me say goodbye.
The importance of friends few people would be able to recognize some friend comes in our life readily and consequently they goes but life doesn't stop for anyone but only one thing remains that is their memories which cannot be wipe out as you guys always remain in my heart and we are the best
فضاعة الذكريات تتوحّد مع الشعور السعيد بانتهائها
...and to this hour the image of Carmilla return to mind with ambiguous alterations--sometimes the playful, languid, beautiful girl; sometimes the writhing fiend I saw in the ruined church; and often from a reverie I have started, fancying I heard the light step of Carmilla at the drawing room door.
