Memories are a funny thing too. There are so many of them and still so many that can be made. But only some remains stuck and tangled on the web of our mind. Most of these memories are of course, of profound significance but yet there are some which ought not to have been remembered. And there are memories of me breaking into a million pieces, crying in the darkness of my room trying hopelessly to muffle the sound of my cries, my first day in my new school, getting lost in a crowd from my mother, meeting my sister after many years. If I mention them all I think I will fill the entire content of this diary.
The truth is memories fade with time. Some of my memories are also faded. They are in black and white. Only the outline and the place are visible without any fine details. They are shrouded by the long distance of time of now and then while others are vivid and clear. They are imbued with the depth of reality. They have remained in my mind the same way my eyes saw them then. But these memories will slowly fade, become old and wither away in the evening breeze. This is how a memories are supposed to be. They are not meant to remain vivid and over use the colors of my mind. But sometimes all it takes is one voice to defy all of this. All it takes is one voice; its brightness, its warmth like the afternoon in the month of December, to bring back a flood of memories; colored, painted and outlined with so much shades and details. They don't fade with the passing of time like other memories but instead they grow vivid and detailed, like they are stretching its arms to touch reality and be redone again.
