Quotes About Memories

Hay quienes ya en su noviazgo produjeron recuerdos para olvidar, poderosos en eso de dejar marcas que dolerán por muchos años después.

But I treasure those nightmares. They're the only thing that's left of my life from before.

In fact, Drew herself had felt shaken, at the reality of those pictures, at their silent reminder - that the people we are closest to can disappear like that, even the people most rooted in our lives, the ones we think of as constant. They too, like Drew herself, would at some point exist merely in images - photographs, recollections.

The summer ends and we wonder who we are And there you go, my friends, with your boxes in your car And today I passed the high school, the river, the maple tree I passed the farms that made it Through the last days of the century And I knew that I was going to learn again Again, in this less hazy light I saw the fields beyond the fields The fields beyond the fields

Sometimes you can only have something you like for a short time, and after that you just have to be happy to have had it when you did, and enjoy the memory of it.

Meanwhile, every corner of this city is laced with memories of us together.

After a breakup there's a momentary relief that you're free again. But that's quickly eclipsed by all the good memories you had together and the realization that there won't be any more of them.

Why do people even take photographs, anyway? They're just reminders of what once was and what you'll never get back. It's so masochistic."-Dom

High school sweetheart" is such an innocuous-sounding term for something that can tear out your guts.

If breakups are like deaths, then ex sightings are like seeing a ghost: you feel goose bumps, near loss of bladder control, and the sensation of your heart bursting in your throat. The distinction is that the ex is alive.

One of the pitfalls of having an ex-boyfriend is that people still pair you together in their memories, and sooner or later someone's bound to mention him. And now that it has happened . . . I can't say I feel nothing. I don't think it's possible to get royally dumped by the only boy I've ever done it with, let alone loved, and then feel nothing when he's brought up in conversation.

We went to church every Sunday. When I was a kid, the only time I sang was around my family.

I had a dad you know.

When I was in college, I was in the theater department, which for anyone who has been involved in any kind of theater program, you know that it's really wacky and tight-knit, a real family. Me and my good friends from college would do random shows and plays that were sometimes serious, but most of the time really goofy and funny.

Underneath me, Sam Grest - who'd been my friend and saved my life - lay perfectly still and slipped further and further into the final sleep of an unfair and horrible death.

IN the book of my heart, pages keep falling out, many of them marked "Mom and Dad.

I was very inspired by my mother. She was a vocal teacher and sang in a band, and my first memories of her were going out with her on the local circuit.

There was a time when the human race did not have technology. This time was called "the 1950s." I was a child then, and it was horrible. There were only three TV channels, and at any given moment at least two of them were showing men playing the accordion in black and white.

And that's the wonderful thing about family travel: it provides you with experiences that will remain locked forever in the scar tissue of your mind.

I got a poster from Columbia Records, and there's Miles Davis, Charlie Mingus, Ellington, Count Basie - everybody in that poster has died, I'm the only one left. And great players like Paul Desmond and Gerry Mulligan, it's hard to believe they're gone because we were all so close. But I believe in the future and the tradition will go on.

That is what grandchildren are for — so that the old may also dream, a promise of a future in return for the lost past.

Youth departs: There are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain, But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again.   Stoddart, And It Never Comes Again

She needs a new journal. The one she has is problematic. To get to the present, she needs to page through the past, and when she does, she remembers things, and her new journal entries become, for the most part, reactions to the days she regrets, wants to correct, rewrite.

Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling into at night. I miss you like hell.