Memory

Memory is a strange thing. It’s selective. A little fuzzy around the edges. Never quite as exact as we imagine it to be. Two people can stand in the same place, live through the same moment, and walk away carrying entirely different versions of what happened. One remembers the laughter. Another remembers what was left unsaid. Someone remembers the warmth. Someone else remembers the hurt. And somehow, they can all be true. Maybe that’s part of the beauty of memory, and sometimes, part of the pain. We don’t remember moments exactly as they happened. We remember them as they lived inside of us. Years later, the details may disappear, but a feeling can remain. Perhaps we are all traveling along the same tracks, carrying different stories of where we’ve been. And maybe the joy is not in remembering perfectly, but in choosing what we carry forward. ✨