Memories.

Briefly glancing out the window, I beheld the grey, cloudy skies. My eyes flickered slightly, inspecting the now-consumed city, monumental buildings made barely visible beneath the impenetrable layer of haze. I felt an effable wave of emotion.

Was it sadness? No.

The feeling was not unfamiliar. In fact, I was strangely accustomed to it, as if I had felt it somewhere before. Then it struck me.

Nostalgia.

Almost as soon as realization dawned, images rushed through my mind, now awash with raw, fresh memories I presumed I had since disregarded. Memories that left me emotionally maimed, broken, scarred.

I swallowed, allowing my eyelids to fall gently shut as I struggled to regain composure, refusing to let bitterness deprive me of equanimity.

Because as much as I relish reveling in this negativity, I recognize that for as many repugnant memories there are beautiful ones. Lovely ones that paint an exquisite portrait, so charming and scenic it almost appears unreal. And yet it is.

I smiled.

Perhaps memories aren't nearly as vile and ghastly as we imagine them to be. Perhaps they are invaluable charms acquired with an expense of our own, designed to be esteemed, prized even. Maybe the reason why people cleave onto memories so tight, for so long, is because memories are the only things that don't change, even when people do. 

Incontrovertibly, there might be that occasional night you just break down and cry, because you know that no matter what, things will on no account be restored to its former state again.

But in life, there are a million things we do. Some we wish we hadn't done, some we wish we could put on replay another million times. In due course, however, it is irrefutable that they are what sculpt us, what shape us. If we were to reverse them, we wouldn't be who we are today.

So live life. Make mistakes. Regret. Laugh. Learn. And repeat it all over again.

The best part of memories?

Making them.