Memory is the treasure chest of life. Within it are stored experiences; those jewels that are the only meaningful form of wealth.
Memory gives reality to the past and shape to the future. It enriches the present instant, this instant, adorning it with moments from what has been and promises for what will come. We are given an impressión, and it stirs in us things that were and are and could have been and perhaps will still be; things that fill our imagination, while we remember them, promise them, taste them now, and all that feelling moves us the more profoundly for coexisting with the impression of the present.
Can a flower be more aromatic than when its perfume awakens the lush of memory?
And the fact is that, many times, things can, by the same art of memory, come to life, and have depth, and history and miraculously transport us to the past, or give life, ignoring the laws of time, to the image of a moment, of a place, of a person, and make it as real as it was once before.
I still keep a note whose mere handwriting makes me tremble.