"Every man's memory is his private literature." Aldous Huxley

"Memory is a crazy woman that hoards colored rags and throws away food." Austin O'Malley

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Today I thought about how it may be nice if I were one of those people that remembered when I peeled an orange for the first time, or one that was able to recall the smell of an October evening, my first sunrise, the first time I picked up a book I actually enjoyed.... etc.

...after considering this for a few sparse moments, I realized how much would be taken away from me if I were someone who retained such information; quite frankly, it's not a part of who I am. I am intrigued by those that remember such events with great detail and often find myself jealous of their 'talent,' but who am I to excuse my absent mindedness as an inability in and of itself? Who am I to suggest either way of memory is the 'right' way? It's such intriguing things that draw me closer to others. 

...with that, I've chosen to accept this about myself as a talent. My ability to harbor anger or bitterness is greatly inhibited because of this talent, and I find myself often sitting in some form of a peaceful awareness due to my nature of not considering every detail critical to my memory. I must admit, I have brushed over crucial pieces of information from time to time (namely in my listening), yet I refuse to let my lack of remembrance mark those words as being insignificance or unimportant details. I've thankfully been blessed with extremely forgiving friends and family members, who have no problem reminding me of details particularly important to them. 

...I know I cherish the things in my memory that are of utmost importance to me; I refuse to beat myself up for not recalling what fingernail polish I wore in 8th grade - yet in the same breath, I am in awe of those who do, and may even recall pieces of their lives in place of mine. 

...being simply aware of our vast differences is growing on me in the form of appreciation as opposed to contradictions, conflicts, clashes, mismatches... it's our array of variation that form the whole, and the whole is such a beautiful thing with each of us there. 

This, I suppose, was my feeble attempt today to appreciate the here and now. The who I am, who you are, who they are, and most importantly: who we all are. Together.

 Old Memory, William Butler Yeats

O thought, fly to her when the end of day

Awakens an old memory, and say,

"Your strength, that is so lofty and fierce and kind,

It might call up a new age, calling to mind

The queens that were imagined long ago,

Is but half yours:he kneaded in the dough

Through the long years of youth, and who would have thought

It all, and more than it all, would come to naught,

And that dear words meant nothing?"But enough,

For when we have blamed the wind we can blame love;

Or, if there needs be more, be nothing said

That would be harsh for children that have strayed.