Memories Quotes - Page 25

Sharing tales of those we've lost is how we keep from really losing them.

People leave traces of themselves where they feel most comfortable, most worthwhile.

A deceitful man will go as far as to trample all over a woman’s reputation and spirit, in order to prove to his ex-love that he was faithful. The irony, is he is still in love with his ex and the new woman in his life doesn’t even realize it.

It is true that in life, precious moments my simply fly,But deep in our hearts and souls, they will never die.

All of life is an amphitheater where we each serve as an appreciative member of the audience until the sublime play ends with our death. The chapters and verses in our life story reflect what we value – how appreciative we are for our time to work, play, laugh, cry, and create.

When something horrible happens, your brain doesn't process the memories right. It stores everything-- sounds, pain, smells, feelings-- all mixed up. It doesn't matter if you believed it or it made sense; it gets stored.

I write because I can remember and to keep those memories alive. I write for pleasure. I write because I must.

The house gulped in a big breath of fresh air, like some frantic drowning thing breaking the water's surface and gasping for life. It had sat unopened for so long, suffocating in the silence, it's memories blanketed by a thick layer of dust.

…the sad part is, that I will probably end up loving you without you for much longer than I loved you when I knew you.Some people might find that strange.But the truth of it is that the amount of love you feel for someone and the impact they have on you as a person, is in no way relative to the amount of time you have known them.

Why do we as humans always tend to remember the worse things about people? We may know someone for many years, know them as vibrant and healthy, yet when they fall ill and pass away, we can only picture them at their sickest, as though they were born and lived their whole lives wearing a death mask.

What are we, if not an accumulation of our memories?

ving self and others is an every second of every day of every week, of every month, of every year gift that should not be taken for granted or withdrawn for petty arguments and misunderstandings. No one knows the day nor the hour that we or a loved one will meet our expiration here on this earth. Time to make time to heal, amend and/or forgive broken relationships, to live your dreams without regret and love like there is no tomorrow for when tomorrow is no longer there...memories will be great and consciences will be clear.

Yes, you are right! I am your leftover trash. I hope you know a bum got to eat too. I believe you were one when I met you.

There were some memories, though, that never faded.

Sitting next to Tilo, breathing next to her, he felt like an empty house whose locked windows and doors were creaking open a little, to air the ghosts trapped inside it.

When you choose your life, ignore people, when you make it in life, remember some friends, when you sing a song, praise your source, when predicaments arises, stand your ground.

He wanted to know all about me and my family and especially my childhood.That's where everything starts, he'd say. Both heaven and hell.

Thoughts turn to other's just a little more this time of year. Days grow shorter and memories grow longer. Families and friends gather in celebration or hope. Giving is a reflection of our love and caring for each other and those less fortunate. May your thoughts turn to gratitude this holiday season and carry on throughout the next year…

I slipped on a turtleneck, laughing when my head became stuck in the turtle part. If they weren't called turtlenecks, I wouldn't have worn them.

Shapes began to appear in the mist as it thickened. Clary saw herself and Simon as children, holding hands, crossing a street in Brooklyn,; she had barrettes in her hair and Simon was adorably rumpled, his glasses sliding off his nose. There they were again, throwing snowballs in Prospect Park; and at Luke's farmhouse, tanned from summer, hanging upside down from tree branches. She saw them in Java Jones, listening to Eric's terrible poetry, and on the back of a flying motorcycle as it crashed into a parking lot, with Jace there, looking at them, his eyes squinted against the sun. And there was Simon with Isabelle, his hands curved around her face, kissing her, and she could see Isabelle as Simon saw her: fragile and strong, and so, so beautiful. And there was Valentine's ship, Simon kneeling on Jace, blood on his mouth and shirt, and blood at Jace's throat, and there was the cell in Idris, and Hodge's weathered face, and Simon and Clary again, Clary etching the Mark of Cain onto his forehead. Maureen, and her blood on the floor, and her little pink hat, and the rooftop in Manhattan where Lilith had raised Sebastian, and Clary was passing him a gold ring across a table, and an Angel was rising out of a lake before him and he was kissing Isabelle...

Removing memories is difficult.... changing is easy...- Dexter

Nostalgia is a lane of calm comfort, charming even a complacent heart!

I would remember this as one of those moments in life that I can hold onto and smile about, forever.

I find things hidden in books: dried flowers, locks of hair, tickets, labels, receipt, invoices, photographs, postcards, all manner of cards. I find letters, unpublished works by the ordinary, the anguished, the illiterate. Clumsily written or eloquent, they are love letters, everyday letters, secret letters and mundane letters talking about fruit and babies and tennis matches, from people signing themselves as Majorie or Jean....I can't bring myself to dispose of these snippets and snapshots of lives that once meant (or still do mean) so much.

I'm only remembering unnecessary things because I'm alone.

The day you left, it felt like I lost a diary in which I had been writing for so long. Now all that memories flashes in bits and pieces inside my head always and makes me wish that I could sit back and read it all over again.

Falling asleep with hopes and wishes that I rarely get to hold in my hand for long…go me. All I’ve got are memories and secrets.

The Old Days, the Lost Days -- in the half-closed eyes of memory (and in fact) they never marched across a calendar; they huddled round a burning log, leaned on a certain table, or listened to those certain songs.

When those who name dead people have gone, there just remains the calmness of foreign cemeteries, in which nothing appears familiar and nothing frightens you.

And they had nothing, except of course memories, their own, and those passed down by their mothers and mothers' mothers. A nation's memory.

The sudden loss of her father was like living with a wound that would never heal, yet her memories of him were fading more and more every day.

The past, rich with it's pains and joys, shuffles before me, relieving the weary dullness of endless days. I rejoice; I agonize.

...it seemed to me that the entire world was like a palace with countless rooms whose doors opened into one another. We were able to pass from one room to the next only by exercising out memories and imaginations, but most of us, in our laziness, rarely exercised these capacities, and forever remained in the same room

A territory is only possessed for a moment in time.

We swam deep in the waves, a wild chase ..Stained with memories and pain.Who knew a gulf would lay between?Who knew loving someone, would ache?

Blame is a Defense Against PowerlessnessBetrayal trauma changes you. You have endured a life-altering shock, and are likely living with PTSD symptoms— hypervigilance, flashbacks and bewilderment—with broken trust, with the inability to cope with many situations, and with the complete shut down of parts of your mind, including your ability to focus and regulate your emotions.Nevertheless, if you are unable to recognize the higher purpose in your pain, to forgive and forget and move on, you clearly have chosen to be addicted to your pain and must enjoy playing the victim.And the worst is, we are only too ready to agree with this assessment! Trauma victims commonly blame themselves. Blaming oneself for the shame of being a victim is recognized by trauma specialists as a defense against the extreme powerlessness we feel in the wake of a traumatic event. Self-blame continues the illusion of control shock destroys, but prevents us from the necessary working through of the traumatic feelings and memories to heal and recover.

In the privacy of her century-worn house she donned an old burka to stay warm. Years earlier, the ragged garment had been discarded by her eldest sister, Sarah. Zoe secretly retrieved it so she could wrap herself in its fond memories. Those memories, good and bad, quickened her weary heart. Only one person could help when she got nerved-up.

There are days when I want to dip my soul in memories and just soak. Then there are others where I'm praying they'll be washed away.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,How could I seek the empty world again?

he wished for freedom and heaven was granted to him".

The Memory Of You Is Like A Drug To Me

I used to play a game where I imagined that someone had abandoned me in a strange place & I had to find my way back home-I thought I could do it blind, the same way a lost dog might trek a thousand miles to return to its owner, relying on some mysterious instinct that drew the heart back to where it belonged.

I try to do something positive – I socialise more…But deep down I know the truth.An entire world of people can never replace the one that I’ve lost.

People often get their imagination's mixed up with their memories.

As Ganin looked up at the skeletal roof in the ethereal sky he realized with merciless clarity that his affair with Mary was ended forever. It had lasted no more than four days—four days which were perhaps the happiest days of his life. But now he had exhausted his memories, was sated by them, and the image of Mary, together with that of the old dying poet, now remained in the house of ghosts, which itself was already a memory

were the last words that I wrote for you enough to tell youthat in my death the light that shone through my painful darknesswas a blinding vision of your eternal smile?cold scalpel's steel whispers tear at my very coreas I cling to my memories of you...

Judge me if you want, but at the end of my life I choose to have memories not regrets.

Take me back into the time when I lost track of time!

The first real memory I have, is one of the first times I was old enough to remember being at your house. We must have been about three, maybe four. I came and sat down beside you while you were playing and it’s like, even then, you knew I wasn’t anything special because you just ignored the hell out of me.

I don't know. There's just something kind of mortifying to me about the intensity of those feelings. I remember them so clearly.