And what is not
filled with memories, wrote Rilke.
It made me realise that all of us
are actually memories.
We exist in the minds of others
as memories. They associate us with
different events and things.
All of us remember things differently.
Life is a collection of memories,
how there are unalike versions of the
same thing in different memories.
It is how we collect our life.
We constantly try to forget the bad moments
and savour the good ones.
It is fascinating how a random song, a small word
and an aimless conversation can open those vaults in our mind which were long forgotten.
And then that memory takes us on a path which knows no direction.
My earliest memory that I remember
clearly, is of me falling of my bicycle and getting hurt.
My latest memory is talking about
books with my friend. These two events bring up feelings that are totally opposite.
We might forget major things but remember
minor details about something.
How we try to enjoy a moment more when we realise we only get to experience a particular
So, I remember,
of random film stars, of friends,
of their family members.
Conversations that took place on any odd school day.
Casual phrases thrown around.
Lyrics to a song.
Very small details about people.
And then I wonder,
does someone think about me when I just exist. When I am not
brought up in conversations.
When I don’t talk to someone.
Is there a memory where I am just there?