Memories are remnants of what or whevner we were impressed with. Selective, maybe, fabricated, probably, melange, definitely, with certain fleeting facts that essentially carved into a certain narrative we keep repeating to ourselves through the use of whose ever ears open to hear. Our upbringing that grew each of us, by the people who took us in then aided in forwarding the trajectory to where we are, rolling into it
Things change, the world change, « the only certainty is uncertainty ». I have not taken this into my heart but it keeps knocking me up and around every so often. Maybe my heart is dense, blocked, or desensitized. Or actually what does that even mean? What is actually normal? To feel all the time? Or the gradient of selective things as we were conditioned to?
As I constantly run a mental review what it all ever was and how did I get to where I stand today. I take stock in situations, events, made memorable