Man, like other living things, primates, avian, fish, crustaceans, albeit trees, are endowed with memories, good or bad, happy or sad, remote or immediate, which define his present life.
The past, they say, cannot be changed, but the past is not dead. It is part of our every waking activities; it lurks even in our sleep, in our dreams, in our nightmare.
The past dwells in our subconscious and to lovers, even those who failed to respond to the call of love, the past keeps haunting us.
The past, now in the form of memories, visit us most often in our old age before senility sits in.
When your home is like an empty nest for the birdies have left in search of their own nests, life becomes quite lonely, but we must move on.
Before crippling age with all its disabilities destroy my thinking or recall faculties, I keep myself busy retrieving the past, sorting them, laughing or crying, because this was my life, and yours perhaps. As the song which I keep playing says:
Only love can make a memory
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These memories are part of my nostalgia, and you are there, sweet love.
YOU ARE READING
SM OROBIA
خيال (فانتازيا)Slowly the sun kisses you before it hides in your bosom but with you beside me I have become your sun lover while our love glows in the dark
