Quotes About Memory

My memory from today on is improving in every department. I shall always remember whatever I need to know at every moment of time and point of space. The impressions received will be clearer and more definite. I shall retain them automatically and with ease. Whatever I wish to recall will immediately present itself in the correct form in my mind. I am improving rapidly every day, and very soon my memory will be better than it has ever been before.

Of course not! I remember the pain, but I don't feel it any longer.

It does not matter what people think of a man after his death.

Memory is never pure. And recollection is always coloured by the life lived since

I want to know what's wrong with loving someone for life? Even when they're dead? What exactly is wrong with that? Why should I put him away, out of my mind? Like he's out of fashion. Does no one love for ever any more? Is no one built for the long road?

Blackouts can be fun if approached with the right mindset. You just can't sweat the fact that you've lost a small portion of your life for all eternity. Occasionally, little bubbles of memory will float up like surreal Mylar party balloons at unexpected times throughout the net day and start piecing together a colorful, if incomplete, version of reality.

In other words, it is about 50 times slower to create and destroy objects with finalizers.

I close. We are not we must not be aliens or enemies but fellow countrymen and brethren. Although passion has strained our bonds of affection too hardly they must not I am sure they will not be broken. The mystic chords of memory which proceeding from so many battle fields and so many patriot graves pass through all the hearts and all the hearths in this broad continent of ours will yet again harmonize in their ancient music when breathed upon by the guardian angel of the nation.   Lincoln

That wouldn't be a first, now would it? Jean. Jean Grey is dead, Agent. Yeah, that'll last.

It is good to know, no matter how long I am gone...you do not grow up too much.

She exists in me now, just as I will and already do within my grandchildren. No one ever truly dies. The desires of our hearts make a path. We create legacy with our thoughts and dreams. This legacy either will give those who follow us joy on their road or will give them sorrow.

I never got to wash my mother's body when she died. I return to take care of her in memory. That's how I make peace when things are left undone.

And, Wind, I am still crazy. I know there is something larger than the memory of a dispossessed people. We have seen it.

History will always find you, and wrap you In its thousand arms.

All those you thought you lost now circle you And you are free of pain and heartbreak. Don't look back, keep going. We will carry your memory here, until we join you In just a little while, in one blink of star time.

something echoes all forgotten dreams

The Poem I Just Wrote The poem I just wrote is not real. And neither is the black horse who is grazing on my belly. And neither are the ghosts of old lovers who smile at me from the jukebox.

I have forgotten the reason, forgive me. I have forgotten my name in the language I was born to, forgive me.

WASHING MY MOTHER'S BODY I never got to wash my mother's body when she died. I return to take care of her in memory. That's how I make peace when things are left undone. I go back and open the door. I step in to make my ritual. To do what should have been done, what needs to be fixed so that my spirit can move on, So that the children and grandchildren are not caught in a knot Of regret they do not understand.

You were born of a generation that promised to help remember.

You're gone now, and I'm still in this predicament called living, Charlie. I imagine things don't change much when you cross the line. You're still you. And I'm still here at the other end of this long, long wave, listening.

The pervasive rhythm of her mother's heartbeat is a ghostly track that follows her.

Some things on this earth are unspeakable: Genealogy of the broken— A shy wind threading leaves after a massacre, Or the smell of coffee and no one there—

You savored each story they told you, and remembered the way the stars entered your blood at birth.