the interesting thing about memories, or atleast my memories, is i almost never recollect them. i do, however, live each detail out.
i'll explain..ask me to tell you about some crazy thing i've done with my friends..and i'll stare at you. draw a complete blank.
but as i look at that curve in the road, i can't help but think of the time we went down to the beach for someone's birthday, racing each other like maniacs. i see my neighbors house, and i'm throwing stones at it again, from the shadows. i walk into my kitchen and i'm drinking chai, sitting down with an old friend after a semester of college and comparing notes on how we survived the big bad world.
it's a fine line. and in the end i wonder, drinking chai on my porch, staring at my green gate, if i'm living two lives, or killing one. fondly recollecting, or frantically escaping? fine line.

escape is one thing. but you can't keep running away. in the end, you draw lines between what's real, and what isn't. But you never stop remembering. You also never stop adding to things to remember when you're old, withered, and sitting on a chair staring out towards the horizon.
(just because it looks quaint, and someone is bound to happen by and take a picture)