We remember events the way that we want to, to work in our favour, to give us something to experience a sense of nostalgia for. Our memories didn’t transpire in the way that we see them now. The person’s scent didn’t enrich the situation; neither did their rhythmic attempt at tapping their fingers against the table. The humming to fill an awkward silence was not poetic. The air was not filled with melancholy.
Our minds rearrange memories to make us nostalgic for moments that didn’t mean anything. It’s almost like memories marinate in our mind for so long that they become something else entirely.
We are responsible for the facets that we choose to remember. We are responsible for forming our own identity and although our own narratives are trusted as an account of our time, they are frail.
(Image Source: here)