I see the walls of my lovely house and I wonder whether there is any sense in cracks, rents, scratches that have changed its look through years. Dozens of nice pictures, photos, yellowed papers, attached to the aged wooden planks, so significant for my world awareness, so dear to my precious memory, – do they really have any meaning now, after many years from the time they actually got some particular importance? Why do they tell me so much, why do they rouse such a great attachment, such a true love of mine? I look through the same window I looked 5, or even perhaps 10 years ago, there are some obvious physical changes in the alluring image, but are they responsible for my now seeing a radically different picture? When I see the roofs of neighboring houses, when I smell the scents of my childhood, when I touch a smooth cover of my favorite books, I feel tenderness that sink my consciousness in its sweet embraces, that makes me smile and laugh cheerfully.

I love my present, but I’ve never loved it as passionately as my past. Whether it’s ok or not I don’t know, and don’t care actually – what for? Fighting with emotions and deeply hidden feelings is a battle doomed to be lost disgracefully. Memory is a curious thing. Is there anything more disposed to distort ever existing reality? We value our recollections so highly, much higher than our today’s concerns and excitements, the same as we sincerely appreciate a sweet lie while repulsing thoughtlessly a supreme and indeed valuable truth. We are never able to throw off the baggage of our past, yet it so often makes us fear, quail, compare, analyze following the absurd prejudices and stereotypes, make new mistakes in attempts to avoid the old ones, creep instead of walking resolutely, suppressed by our previous experiences.

We hold our memories tightly. Is it fair to blame ourselves for innocent weaknesses? What if living in present moment turns out to be too hard to bear? What if searching for salvation, for escape from frequent blows and pushes of unfriendly surroundings, we so childlikely plunge into our sweetest memories, brightest experienced emotions, surrounding ourselves by nonsensical evidences of our happiness, tiny material tellers of our insignificant adventures. Giving special meaning to trifles is a way to get lost in own perception of reality. Who said that looking for easy ways is bad? It is much worse to forget about what has once been so dear, to neglect what has once presented us a precious moment of joy.