A Trip Down Memory Lane
Each day, slowly and painfully and happily
The clock ticks every second
Every minute, every hour, every day
And the weeks and the months and the years
Slowly and painfully and happily
Of those moments so dear
Slipping back to my mind
Whilst I fail to recapture.
Hold back...
Yet how much could I...?
Remember...
Yet how much could I...?
I feel happy
I feel sad
I feel proud
I feel embarrassed
I feel angry
I feel love
I feel hate
Yet I feel so attached.
Of memories that hold me dear
Ever and always.
And my possessiveness
Of memories that I cherish
Kill me
Ever and always.
The clock ticks every second
Every minute, every hour, every day
And the weeks and the months and the years
Slowly and painfully and happily
Of those moments so dear
Slipping back to my mind
Whilst I fail to recapture.
Hold back...
Yet how much could I...?
Remember...
Yet how much could I...?
I feel happy
I feel sad
I feel proud
I feel embarrassed
I feel angry
I feel love
I feel hate
Yet I feel so attached.
Of memories that hold me dear
Ever and always.
And my possessiveness
Of memories that I cherish
Kill me
Ever and always.
 |
| Every man's memory is his private literature. Aldous Huxley |
yes memories kills us..then we become memory itself..and slowy with decades after our absence momory of our body or our presence fades from the mind of our progeny..thus we are
ReplyDeletenothing at the end..
I was wondering if regrets are really pain of the memories ;] and your remark has prompted me to go deeper into nihilism...
ReplyDelete