remnants

I watched Memento just now. It's a perplexing movie, but I find some scenes relatable, tangible. Christopher Nolan is an artist for coming up with this:

"I don't even know how long she's been gone. It's like I've woken up in bed and she's not here... because she's gone to the bathroom or something. But somehow, I know she's never gonna come back to bed. If I could just... reach over and touch... her side of the bed, I would know that it was cold, but I can't. I know I can't have her back... but I don't want to wake up in the morning, thinking she's still here. I lie here not knowing... how long I've been alone. So how... how can I heal? How am I supposed to heal if I can't... feel time? "

Time and memory have a curious relationship. Time moves on with or without your permission, and with it, it erases memory. Yet it never does a clean job. It leaves remnants. Hidden in little things, like easter eggs. Then you stumble upon one of these little things... and it's like time never passed. To you who are reading this, I don't know what that thing that will jolt your memory of me is...it may be a collection of things, maybe a song, maybe an old abandoned blog...whatever it is, perhaps your memory will retrace back slowly to how i became a memory.