Jul 26, 2010

I wonder what I will write in the title box?

I have returned People. I decided to try and make at least one blog post a week. What they will be about, well that is bound to vary from the different to the uninterpretable. Today I have no idea what to write about so I think I will just blabber unintelligibly. Kidding I'll just get on with it.

I wonder how much of our memories are real. I recently read a book (big surprise the book nerd has been reading again) called vanishing acts by Jodi Picoult. The book is about one miss Delia Hopkins -What are the odds- that has lived in the same house since she was five, with the same two next door neighbours her age, one of which she is engaged to and has a daughter with. She spent her days searching for missing persons with her search and rescue dog, until the police showed up and arrested her father for kidnapping. Kidnapping her.

Awesome book, but what has got me thinking is the fact that Delia was too young to even remember this. She was five when her father took her from her home, i think it was in Phoenix or something. I don't know I've read like five different books since I finished this one. Anyway, she has no memories of her old life until she starts searching for them. It made me wonder. . .

If people can unconsciously block out memories that they don't want, memories too traumatic to keep within reach, then how much of our memories do we really keep? It is a natural reaction for people to block out their own stupidity, their own mistakes, or even the stupidity or mistakes of the people that matter to them, Especially if these memories have an effect on why you are the way you are. So if every mistake we made was a mistake we discarded of mentally, then there really isn't much memory left to explore.

Perhaps our worst memories, the memories that hurt too much to keep in our sights, the memories that we leave behind in hope of no return, are what fuel our nightmares. Dreams are made up of memories, so if nightmares exist, then memories can't possibly disappear.

The way I see it, nightmares are like mosquitoes. There is no logical reason for their existence, other than to annoy.


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