The trouble with things remembered is they have a tendency to be glossed over by time, often dulled, and more often romanticized to the point where any semblance of reality is smothered beyond recognition. And it’s all too easy to throw caution to the wind and say ‘that’s the way it was’ when in actuality it might not have been at all.
Cherished or hateful, memories haunt the obsessed, entertain the mindless, and inspire hope for those without hope. Forged by the indelible ink of living, only those who are insane escape their haunts. Like willful apparitions, memories float in and out of existence. And we—we are left not knowing from whence they came or why they did so.
The fragile human psyche is defenseless against the onslaught of hurtful memories, imagined or real. Even those that we normally view as cherished cause us pain in memory because they exist no longer. Like Sandburg’s “Fog,” they silently creep into our existence to devil us and in our solitude, we cry out, as Shakespeare was wont to say, “Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then his heard no more.”
Ah! But if were only true, Will. Even now, don’t we wonder what the haunts will be in the next life, the here-after?
With that said, as these memories conjure up mind-pictures, we begin the game of trying to control them so we can go to sleep. Often we begin by counting, praying, or silently humming to our restless selves. There is a time-tested trick to stop the endless tennis match playing out in our minds. You will be surprised how simple it is. No, it’s not drinking a glass of warm milk before bed time, or downing that extra shot of scotch.
Simply ask yourself “What is my next thought?” You can’t think of your next thought. Try it the next time your memories are haunting you. It certainly is far more interesting than counting sheep. That’s an endless process.
It worked!
)
Uh, now I can’t remember why I stopped by . . .
like this
and the picture too