craig aquino,
“Childhood memories are sometimes covered and obscured beneath the things that come later, like childhood toys forgotten at the bottom of a crammed adult closet…” wrote Neil Gaiman in The Ocean at the end of the Lane.
I told a friend once that I was afraid of forgetting things. Memories are important. They make a person who they are.
Even more important are childhood memories. They come from a time of innocence, joy, and careless frolic – a time when the Earth, to quote Wordsworth, “did seem appareled in celestial light.” We can look fondly upon them when we are all grown up and adults, to escape from whatever woes may befall us.
Sometimes, however, there seems to be nothing to remember. There are no adventures, no dragons defeated, and no damsels rescued. Perhaps it is a fault of memory, or perhaps it is a fault of childhood itself.
There are times when friends tell me of their childhood. They tell me of how their mothers read them to sleep, how they played with their childhood friends, or about whatever misadventures they’ve had. As I hear all these wonderful stories, I cannot help but feel jealous. Whenever I try and look back, I am greeted by nothingness.
I am a writer, and it is sad and sorry for me to be in such a state. It is a writer’s duty to record the human experience, and to help keep humanity’s collective memory. Childhood is such a crucial time in a person’s life, and for a writer to not have a memory of his is woe upon him. It is one of the most basic things that a writer can draw from – the simple joys of youth and its lackadaisical manner.
I am also a reader, and it is sad and sorry for me to be in such a state. Readers are well-versed in tales and stories from the various things they’ve read. To have no recollection of one’s own story is woe upon him, for knowing about a thousand lives is nothing if one can’t tell one’s own.
It is a difficult life, having forgotten one’s childhood. It is a comfort lost. Most people can take solace in their memories of youth – of how they were cared for, or how they enjoyed themselves – but I cannot.
But perhaps there is hope:
“Childhood memories are sometimes covered and obscured beneath the things that come later, like childhood toys forgotten at the bottom of a crammed adult closet,” Neil Gaiman wrote, “but they are never lost for good.” //by Craig Aquino
Feature (Submission): Recollections of Childhood
“Childhood memories are sometimes covered and obscured beneath the things that come later, like childhood toys forgotten at the bottom of a crammed adult closet…” wrote Neil Gaiman in The Ocean at the end of the Lane.
I told a friend once that I was afraid of forgetting things. Memories are important. They make a person who they are.
Even more important are childhood memories. They come from a time of innocence, joy, and careless frolic – a time when the Earth, to quote Wordsworth, “did seem appareled in celestial light.” We can look fondly upon them when we are all grown up and adults, to escape from whatever woes may befall us.
Sometimes, however, there seems to be nothing to remember. There are no adventures, no dragons defeated, and no damsels rescued. Perhaps it is a fault of memory, or perhaps it is a fault of childhood itself.
There are times when friends tell me of their childhood. They tell me of how their mothers read them to sleep, how they played with their childhood friends, or about whatever misadventures they’ve had. As I hear all these wonderful stories, I cannot help but feel jealous. Whenever I try and look back, I am greeted by nothingness.
I am a writer, and it is sad and sorry for me to be in such a state. It is a writer’s duty to record the human experience, and to help keep humanity’s collective memory. Childhood is such a crucial time in a person’s life, and for a writer to not have a memory of his is woe upon him. It is one of the most basic things that a writer can draw from – the simple joys of youth and its lackadaisical manner.
I am also a reader, and it is sad and sorry for me to be in such a state. Readers are well-versed in tales and stories from the various things they’ve read. To have no recollection of one’s own story is woe upon him, for knowing about a thousand lives is nothing if one can’t tell one’s own.
It is a difficult life, having forgotten one’s childhood. It is a comfort lost. Most people can take solace in their memories of youth – of how they were cared for, or how they enjoyed themselves – but I cannot.
But perhaps there is hope:
“Childhood memories are sometimes covered and obscured beneath the things that come later, like childhood toys forgotten at the bottom of a crammed adult closet,” Neil Gaiman wrote, “but they are never lost for good.” //by Craig Aquino
0 comments: