For what is a person without memories? A ghost, trapped between worlds, without an identity, with no future, no past.
The palest ink will endure beyond the memories of man
Die while I can still remember who I am, who I used to be.
To have memories, happy or sorrowful, is a blessing, for it shows we have lived our lives without reservation.
Time is eating away my memory. Time, and this illness, this trespasser in my brain.
Memory is like patches of sunlight in an overcast valley, shifting with the movement of the clouds. Now and then the light will fall on a particular point in time, illuminating it for a moment before the wind seals up the gap, and the world is in shadows again.