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But I can’t see anything any more: however much I search the past I can only retrieve scraps of images and I am not sure what they represent, nor whether they are remembered or invented.

But I can’t see anything any more: however much I search the past I can only retrieve scraps of images and I am not sure what they represent, nor whether they are remembered or invented.

– Jean-Paul Sartre –

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Again his memory failed to conjure her face. It was like trying to call up a melody while another song played.

I have always thought of memories as fragments, like colored glass shards in a kaleidoscope. It is the source of great beauty in our lives, yet the cause of such heartache. It remains the bridge between our past and present – it gives weight and dimension to our very existence.

To be left with only the trace of a memory is to gaze at an armchair that’s still molded to the form of a love who has left never to return: It is to grieve, dear reader, it is to weep.

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