#memories

If you see an old man talking to himself, he might not be a fool or crazy. He might be sharing a conversation with the past, warmed by a memory he need not reveal. ↗

— Steven Merle Scott

#memories #old-age #age

This was me before I knew about anything hard, when my whole life was packed lunches and art projects and spelling quizzes. ↗

— Nina LaCour

#innocence #memories #art

I can't change what happened. If I'm honest, I don't want to. I won't regret it. I'll keep those memories trapped in a bubble away from labels of good and bad and right and wrong ↗

— Sara Grant

#change

The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It's realising they're just memories and doesn't belong to your present. ↗

— Oussama Bounsir

#memories #pain #change

It was one of those rare times when remembering the dead was more inmportant than tending to the needs of the living. ↗

— Dean Koontz

#death-of-a-loved-one #memories #remembering #death

The train blows through town delivering reality, slapping my face and screaming, “You are alone” Rose colored memories drown, taking their last breath. ↗

— Kellie Elmore

#depression #grief #grieving #loneliness #loss

I answer the heroic question, 'Death, where is thy sting?' with 'It is in my heart and mind and memories. ↗

— Maya Angelou

#heartache #memories #death

What kind of miracle ripped out your heart, and left you breathing? ↗

— A.B. Shepherd

#life-and-living #pain #painful-memories #death

In a person's lifetime there may be not more than half a dozen occasions that he can look back to in the certain knowledge that right then, at that moment, there was room for nothing but happiness in his heart. ↗

— Ernestine Gilbreth Carey

#happiness #life #memories #moments #satisfaction

There is so little to remember of anyone - an anecdote, a conversation at a table. But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming habitual fondness not having meant to keep us waiting long. ↗

— Marilynne Robinson

#dreams