Memory

Memory's weird.

It drips in slowly, like a leak in the ceiling you didn’t notice until it ruined your favourite hoodie. Sometimes it disappears completely. Sometimes it crashes in—loud, sharp, uninvited.

Like it never left.

Like it was hiding just beneath the surface, waiting for the right trigger.

You try to hold on to it, bottle it, preserve it.

But memory doesn’t play fair. It slips through fingers. It distorts. It remixes itself with emotions.

And yet— it’s all we’ve got.

Every day I walk around carrying ghosts. Not spooky ones.

Just moments. Flashes. Sounds. Texts I never replied to.

Smells that remind me of a friend.

A song that brings back someone I don’t talk to anymore.

Some memories hurt.

Some save me.

Some do both.

But the thing I’m learning is this: memory is a tool, not a weight. It can pull me back into the past, sure. But it can also push me forward—reminding me of what I’ve survived, who I was, and who I can still become.

Today I’m letting memory breathe.

Not to relive everything—but to honour it.

Because I’m not just made of thoughts. I’m made of the people who showed up, the songs that hit different, the times I almost gave up but didn’t.

That’s worth remembering.

If you’re reading this, you’ve got a memory too. You survived something. You held on to something. And that makes you part of this story too.

And if you're reading this I have to be honest with you. Because honesty is the best policy.

And the only thing I know how to say to you right now is:

Thank you.

Whoever you are.

For helping me. In your own way. And at your own pace.

I appreciate you.

And I hope we get to talk.

Talk soon – Brincat

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