Of all the people, events, or circumstances that have ever made an impression upon or affected my life, I find it fascinating to realize—and fully comprehend, and ruminate on—the fact that my most vivid recollections concern incidents that—at the time—gave absolutely no indication of their memorability—or indeed, of any significance whatsoever. Each day was just that—another day.
But now, when I pause in whatever I’m doing to entertain certain memories, I realize that is the way of human nature; our memories are intangible photographs taken (usually) without our knowledge—or consent—by the subconscious mind. And ultimately, they end up filed away in the photo albums of our synaptic archives.
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Sometimes, those things we hope to remember forever—a particularly good time with friends, a stunning autumnal landscape, the euphoria of falling in love—are lost to us despite our best efforts. And yet, ironically, it’s the seemingly trivial moment that somehow becomes indelibly imprinted upon the mind—and then resolves to stay with us forever.
And like a fine wine forgotten, that waits quietly fermenting in the cellar collecting decades of dust, our subconscious thoughts lie racked in the mind’s cellar, fermenting into fond memories, ultimately uncorking themselves—without invitation—when we least expect it.
Mot Juste 