We are all making in our today’s the memories of our tomorrows. Whether these shall be pleasant or painful to contemplate depends on whether we are living well or ill. Memory writes down everything where we shall be compelled to see it perpetually. There have been authors who in their last days would have given worlds to get back the words they had written. There have been men and women who would have given their right hands to blot out the memories of certain passages in their lives, certain acts done, certain words sent forth to scatter sin or sorrow.
“On the wall I see them, outlines vague and drear,
Strange, mysterious shadows, fraught with nameless fear
Sometimes moving slowly, sometimes moving fast–
Shadow from another world, shadows of the pat;
Shadows faint, intangible–shadows, shadows all,
Yet my eyes discern them passing on the wall;
Sometimes moving slowly, sometimes moving fast,
Still their sad reflection o’er my soul they cast.”
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