All my life I've taken mental snapshots of life trying to burn them into my memory. Now in my old age what I remember is that effort, but most of the snapshots content are gone. It makes me sad but then I realize that I at least know that I had a lot of magic moments, that I have more memories of wanting to remember than wanting to forget. The fine details might be gone but I know I've had a good life.
What is odd to me is that if I sit and tell someone my life story, if I honestly tell the events of my life, most people believe they are hearing a sad story. I see pity and even horror in their response. Maybe I'm just a poor story teller. Maybe clouds just have more impact than silver linings. Maybe I'm just delusional that I have had a good life.
I stopped telling my story years ago except in bits and pieces to the grandchildren and in journals like this. However my story is perceived I have to say that the little things, like feeling the magic of a beautiful morning, should convey a beautiful life that I am thankful for.
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