I don’t usually take pictures of places I’m in. They say pictures help to remember, but I insist on not taking them. Stupidly so?
Pictures are nice if you know the basics of taking them (or in other words, how not to take them). Plus, they help to remember.
Still, I try to remember without the help. I keep thinking maybe the pictures would distort my memory of this or that moment, maybe they would spoil what I experienced.
Remembering without the help of pictures is a lousy practice. You forget so much it makes you cry.
I wish I could handle time, and memory — these two are really peculiarly connected — more easily. I wish I were able to decide which memories not to lose, and always know where (when?) to place them on the timeline of my life.
But I forget. Even the greatest of moments, I forget. I lose track of events, misplace them on my timeline, stretch or shorten them inappropriately.
Sometimes it’s the sadness that makes me do it, sometimes it’s the happiness of living.
I wish I could handle time, and memory, more easily. I sometimes write down stuff, such as my impressions from a movie, or what songs a band played during a concert, to help myself remember.
But I’m a lousy writer, too. And I forget to write the stuff down.
So, what will this wibbly wobbly, timey wimey thing do with my memories?
I keep on trusting time, and carry my memories in the mind. I trust the mind, too, and believe it will take good care of the good ones.
But sometimes, I also help myself with a picture — this one is from vacation: