Quotes About Nostalgia

But I didn't frame it; I put into an envelope and sealed it and stuffed it far back into a corner drawer of a filing cabinet. It's there, just in case one of these days I start to lose her. There might be a morning when I wake up and her face isn't the first thing I see. Or a lazy August afternoon when I can't quite recall anymore where the freckles were on her right shoulders. Maybe one of these days, I will not be able to listen to the sound of snow falling and hear her footsteps.

If you had to pack your whole life into a suitcase-not just the practical things, like clothing, but the memories of the people you had lost and the girl you had once been-what would you take?

For better or for worse, music is the language of memory. It is also the language of love.

Goldfish get big enough only for the bowl you put them in. Bonsai trees twist in miniature. I would have given anything to keep her little. They outgrow us so much faster than we outgrow them.

I could not remember my first kiss, but I could have told you Charlotte would be my last.

Summertime, I think, is a collective unconscious. We all remember the notes that made up the song of the ice cream man; we all know what it feels like to brand our thighs on a playground slide that's heated up like a knife in a fire; we all have lain on our backs with our eyes closed and our hearts beating across the surface of our lids, hoping that this day will stretch just a little longer than the last one, when in fact it's all going in the other direction.

But what if your obsession has nothing to do with drugs or thrills or money? What if what you want most in the world is to recapture the way life was a week, a month, a year ago-and you are willing to do whatever it takes?

Remember when you were a little kid and you'd fall asleep in the car? And someone would carry you out and put you into bed, so that when you woke up in the morning, you knew automatically you were home again? That's what I think it's like to die.

What I want, more than anything, is to turn back time a little. To become the kid I used to be, who believed whatever my mother said was one hundred percent true and right without looking hard enough to see the hairline crack.

When was the last time someone read aloud to you? Probably when you were a child, and if you think back, you'll remember how safe you felt, tucked under the covers, or curled in someone's arms, as a story was spun around you like a web.

History could hover, like a faint perfume or a memory stamped on the back of one's eyelids.

It made me think of my mother, when she made her pie crusts. She'd prick little holes all over the place. So it can breath, she said. I was just breathing. I closed my eyes, anticipating each cut, feeling that wash of relief when it was done.

Music is the language of memory

There had been so many easy words between them that Daniel was guilty of nodding every now and then and tuning out the excess. He hadn't known, at the time, that he should have been hoarding these, like bits of sea glass hidden in the pocket of a winter coat to remind him that once it had been summer.

If you ask me, music is the language of memory

I'm a kid from the small Illinois town of Batavia, who grew up on the Chicago Cubs and made sports his life's work, although there's never been a day where it actually seemed like work.

I'm so happy I grew up in a time where we played hide and seek and played on the street with friends rather than playing on an iPad all day.

All dressed up in finery and pearls, We remember the time as little girls We giggled and curtsied and longed for the day, when our parties would be real and not just play.

It's hard to forget someone who you've imagined spending forever with.

We were so much in love. How could you forget? Wish you were here with me, but Memories are all I have left.

I tell folks all the time, I'm glad I was able to start out my life like that, but I'm also glad it's over,

Paint the mirrors black to forget you I still picture your face and the way you used to taste. Roses in a glass, dead and wilted to you this all was nothing. Everything to you is nothing.

I miss laughing until my stomach hurt. I miss lakes and I miss him. I miss my best friends and parties. I miss who I was.

I like not having too many friends but sometimes I miss a select few of the ones I had to let go...