Memories... Haruki Murakami has is right, they are the most important thing, they are in an essence what makes us who we are. Even the bad memories teach us something. But the good ones are like dreams we float a top to foster and summon for days when we want to reminisce. I have fond memories of my childhood, of playing in the desert valley of California under a hot, scorching sun, browning my pale skin and hair. We used to build forts out of lost wood beams on our swing set in our vast backyard, using the swing set as a frame and finding everything from a wheelbarrow to ladders to old rugs to make complete it with. These are fond memories I have of playing care free as a child with my brother, and I often think back to them as if they were another life, completely separate from my life now. We had a rope bridge that sat high off of the ground that extended from the swing set to a tall silk oak tree we liked to climb. We spent most of our days outside basking the California sun, getting brown and happy without any worries, as children often are, (as they should be). These memories are dreamlike to me, hazy, wrapped in a big sunny ribbon, perhaps because they were from when I was so young. I cherish these mementos of childhood, for they created me into who I am.
Memories... Haruki Murakami has is right, they are the most important thing, they are in an essence what makes us who we are. Even the bad memories teach us something. But the good ones are like dreams we float a top to foster and summon for days when we want to reminisce. I have fond memories of my childhood, of playing in the desert valley of California under a hot, scorching sun, browning my pale skin and hair. We used to build forts out of lost wood beams on our swing set in our vast backyard, using the swing set as a frame and finding everything from a wheelbarrow to ladders to old rugs to make complete it with. These are fond memories I have of playing care free as a child with my brother, and I often think back to them as if they were another life, completely separate from my life now. We had a rope bridge that sat high off of the ground that extended from the swing set to a tall silk oak tree we liked to climb. We spent most of our days outside basking the California sun, getting brown and happy without any worries, as children often are, (as they should be). These memories are dreamlike to me, hazy, wrapped in a big sunny ribbon, perhaps because they were from when I was so young. I cherish these mementos of childhood, for they created me into who I am.