I’ve had occasion recently to contemplate the concept of memory. I am not referring to memory as it applies to addresses, telephone numbers, skills or other rote applications. I am meaning more, memory in the formative sense, as it applies to us as people. 

Why do we remember the things we do?
Why are some memories so much more vivid than others? 
Why do the feelings they churn up feel so raw sometimes? 
Can we be sure that our memories are not only an edited version of the truth, fabricated within our minds to meet some subconscious need or desire?

I suppose there are people and events throughout our lives that leave larger imprints on our soul than do others, and that those memories would be recollected with much greater zeal than others of a more mundane nature. My question, I suppose, really is…

Can we trust our memories?

I can’t help but feel like our memories betray us sometimes. As they nestle into our subconscious, a linen canvas capturing a fleeting moment in time, they fade and blur until all that remains are glimpses of our past. As a bronze statue gains patina over time which accentuates it’s beauty and conceals it’s flaws, so to do time and distance alter the lens through which we recollect our pasts. In time, the harshness and hurt fade, and we are left with a sepia photo album filled with romantic snapshots of past experiences. 

I am not certain there is resolution to this query. Rather, insight and choice. If in recalling past days, my heart and my brain bring to my attention remembrances of joy, passion, love and excitement, then I will not argue. I have enough access to negativity in the present that I am quite happy to engage in idealistic memory of my past where the darkness had faded and what remains are the best details of the experiences that shaped me.