It’s strange the ways memories and experiences pile up over each other, sometimes grouped into similar experiences or so overbearing that they repress the old stuff down into the depths. Some can monopolize the waking and dreaming hours with equal severity. The dreaming memories can extend to terrifying depths. I’ve dreamt of eyes and hair that tear me apart, as well as other, stranger things. The ones that bother me are usually old and dying guilts. The ones I like I keep.

This photo could remind me of much, but mostly it reminds me of a name: Danielle. It’s important that I write it because I recently discovered that the second girl I slept with—after Jackie, who I still can’t write about—is nearly lost to me. I forgot her name, her eyes, or the things she said. I do remember that I told her anything more than what we’d done was not in our best interest. Except, you know, more in line with something a clueless 18-year old might say. Or was I 19?

That’s the trick to aging, I reckon. Remembering enough of the past to put a name to a memory.

(Source: june1972)