Memories...

Memories. Very often I hate them. Mainly for their euhemeristic nature. You can’t touch them, you can’t feel them in a proper way, and you can’t smell them or see them, unless you close your eyes. They are illusive. They are thin ghosts of life full of … life, and joy. Like an old photograph, reminding you of something, of certain part of your life, of experience that you went through. I hate them also because they tease. Because sometimes the memory is so strong that it gives the opportunity to feel the feeling you felt once, to smell the smells you smelled once, to hear the sounds you heard once. You can close your eyes…and here you go…thinking, constructing, imagining. Building the life in your head that you had once, trying to experience it over and over again. But it is not real. It is all your head. You open your eyes - pfff…illusion is gone. No feelings, no smells, no sounds. Plain emptiness. And you feel disoriented, frustrated. Because you want it back, that feelings, and experiences. But they won’t come back. That is why I hate them. But sometimes, all you have is a memory. And you cherish them, like precious light in Christmas lantern. You clutch them with all your power to your soul, like that greedy Scrooge from Dickens’s story trembled over his silver spoons. Yes, like Scrooge, with all your force and greed you protect them. Because they are priceless. And without them you are nothing. Without them, people would be as tough, and as machinery, as robots. And it is not at all about visual memories. More about sensual ones. They are more like associations. Some tiny shade of familiar sense, and you are already under the power of your memory. Imagine. The smell of strong coffee - and you are thinking about that particular day, when you sensed the same smell of coffee. That day. Late Sunday morning. That coffee, hot and pleasantly bitter. Open window shows the view of wet trees, of nearby lake; from far away you can hear squeaks of old wood pier, screams of seagulls. Fresh, cool air, full of ozone. You feel dazed by sudden thought of how happy you can be just because of this appeasement. Or. The smell of validol, special tincture for heart. You hear it - and here goes other feelings: warm hands of grandpa, holding you, and soft voice of grandma whispering a lullaby. They both smelled of medicine and soap, especially those medicines for heart. The smell of smoke in hot summer evening. That summer. The forest nearby was on fire. We all, citizens of villages nearby, were waiting for the evacuation. All men were there helping to firemen, the police, the militaries, Red Cross… There were tiny senses among us of fear and excitement of close danger. Summer evening, hot air smelling so sweet with flowers and thick note of pine smoke. Or. Mullah, Muslim priest, calling for azan. You hear it, and it brings you to the day when in your town after many years of Soviet Union oppression, the old mosque was reconstructed and rebuild. That day we all celebrated our freedom to believe. And then, on dawning autumn evening from far away the mullah in mosque started calling for azan. His words were vibrating in thin air like laces of ornaments of Arabic words, austere, powerful, might. These are something that belongs only to you, secretly hidden deep inside your mind. Everyone has to have them. That’s why you cherish them, because they are only yours, they make you. You recall memories like that to feel once again. You hold on to them, because sometimes they can your asylum when you are trying to run away from everyday routine, or stress. They give you peace and they allow your mind relax. I wish everyone to have in mind and to keep only pleasant memories. Let them be. Even if I very often hate them. Let them be...