Memories are like posters on the walls of our mind. When we first hang them, we love them. They have all of our favorite characters and movie stars, and scenes from places and people we love. We relish them, hang them like relics on the corridors of our soul, and we expect every passer-by to admire them. We do not realize that the significance of these posters is lost on everyone but ourselves, and maybe the few friends who helped us put them up. Soon cracks begin to appear on these posters. They become much dimmer. We grow frightful as their words become harder and harder to read. One day a certain poster gets ripped and we have to throw it away in frustration, knowing we will never again admire it. Sometimes the wall becomes too crowded, and we have to hang some posters on top of other less pretty ones. But the old good ones, like fine wine, only become better. Then one day we die, and someone walks into our apartment. He gives a passing glance at our posters. To him they’re meaningless, but deep down he is touched by our ghost.


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