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Black and White Memory

I've decided to start blogging more. That means relaxing my criteria for blog content. Whereas before I typically wrote fast-paced disjointed tales of wild behavior loosely focused around one central theme, my new blogs will have only one requirement:

  • Words

So here are some words:

I have a hell of a time remembering colors. I'm sitting in my bedroom right now, and I couldn't tell you off the top of my head what color the walls are in my living room. I know I live in a white house, but I'm not sure if it's bright white or off white or this vanilla creamy color the walls in my room apparently are. I have no idea what color either of my next door neighbors' houses are.

No one has ever explained to me why my brain works this way. My memory is of the high end variety. I have excellent short term memory for remembering phone numbers and capital cities and most trivia made obsolete by smart phones. When given a nudge in the right direction I can recall the layout of a kitchen I drank beers in once at some Titanic (the boat) themed party six years ago. But I don't know any of my roommates' eye color.

I guess we all have selective memories. We remember cuddling and kissing and moments of intimacy. We forget the doubts and the daydreams we had about other potential lovers. If you've ever loved someone, you want to remember the things you loved about them.

The wall next to my computer desk has black streaks from scraping against my shoes when I sit with them propped up on my desk. The light switch panel is brown with dirt, and the edge of my door frame is completely black. But I won't remember any of that.

My brain values substance over appearance. I won't remember what my room looks like, but I know what's in it, and I will always remember the people who have shared it with me.

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