Quotes About Memories

This is the time to just be young and celebrate and enjoy each other!" "Yes, within reason, of course.

Around three a.m. I throw away Peter's notes. I delete the picture of him from my phone; I delete his number. I think that if I just delete him enough, it will be like none of it ever happened and my heart won't hurt so badly.

I guess now that I think back, I used to play priest and be a funny priest. I don't know, I grew up in such a Catholic family that I kind of liked to test the boundaries a little bit and I think I had fun watching my mom laugh.

A few days later, I yelled at him for losing his new lunch box, and he turned to me and said, Are you sure you're my mother? Sometimes you don't seem like a good enough person. He was just a kid, so I let it go. And now, years later, I probably only think of it, I don't know, once or twice a day.

There is a picture of my mother holding me as a baby, a look of naked love on her face. For years, it embarrassed me. Now there is a picture of me with my daughter looking exactly the same way.

She remembers the first night she knew she loved him, the way the fear came rushing in. She laid her head on his chest and listened to his heart. One day this too will stop, she thought. The no, no, no of it.

Memories are microscopic. Tiny particles that swarm together and apart. Little people, Edison called them. Entities.

Is she a good baby? People would ask me. Well, no, I'd say. That swirl of hair on the back of her head. We must have taken a thousand pictures of it.

Memories are microscopic. Tiny particles that swarm together and apart. Little people, Edison called them. Entities. He had a theory about where they came from and that theory was outer space.

Aquel chico era tan guapo que lo miraba mientras dormía. Si tuviera que resumir lo que hizo conmigo, diría lo siguiente: hizo que yo me pusiera a cantar todas la canciones malas que sonaban en la radio. Mientras me quiso y cuando dejó de hacerlo.

Los recuerdos son microscópicos. Partículas diminutas que se agolpan y se dispersan. Gente minúscula, los llamó Edison. Criaturas. Tenía una teoría sobre su origen: llegaban del espacio exterior".

The time that has gone with happiness does not come back with grief, and nothing the future may bring can wither a day or wipe out an hour in the life that has been lived.

A dreary sense of loneliness came over him as he realized how everything he had brought with him from home and from the old days seemed to fall away from him and let him go his own way, forgotten and forsaken. The door to the past was barred, and he stood outside, empty-handed and alone; whatever he needed and desired he must win for himself--new friends and new shelter, new affections and new memories.

My time at Honda was amazing. Some of my best times in Formula One, actually. I might not have won races, just one race, but I had a lot of fun.

We all have our time machines. Some take us back, they're called memories. Some take us forward, they're called dreams.

Maybe we should've stayed like that, just hanging out. Maybe we never should've kissed those Keeley boys.

Logan was close enough for me to touch, to smell, to feel his breath on my forehead. Close enough to kiss. If only he were alive.

You can't fight memories. They come whether you look for them or not.

Oh yeah, pain. I think it's the same when we lose someone we love. It never stops hurting. But maybe it shouldn't. That pain, after all, is a souvenir of love.

I thought I was long done with the Firsts. First Easter since his death, First Birthday, First Trip to IHOP, First Phillies Game. But everything we ever did together, that we'd never share again--like Longwood Gardens at Christmas--still waited before me. In that moment, I dreaded the rest of my life.

It was a little four-roomed cottage where the boy lived, and his mother—good soul!—gave us hot bacon for supper, and we ate it all—five pounds—and a jam tart afterwards, and two pots of tea, and then we went to bed.

Life will be less attractive than when Aden was here, but still I must step onward. With the program over, she got the horse ready with Monroe's help. No one gave her strange looks when she drove away. Already other buggies were hitched up to leave. Her heart hurt as she drove down the gravel road and past the creek and Aden's old

Works of art often last forever, or nearly so. But exhibitions themselves, especially gallery exhibitions, are like flowers they bloom and then they die, then exist only as memories, or pressed in magazines and books.

There's one Baldessari work I genuinely love and would like to own, maybe because of my Midwestern roots and love of driving alone. 'The backs of all the trucks passed while driving from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara, California, Sunday, 20 January 1963' consists of a grid of 32 small color photographs depicting just what the title says.