memories and place

At this point in my life, memories of places begin to pop up at the oddest times. Not full blown stories -- just little moments of a place. Another 20 years and I'll be the elderly folk of my youth, relating to bored folk around me about a reality that no longer exists. Now I stifle those urges, but one's internal governor over such behavior probably weakens in time.

But if it is a physical thing, this vivid return of memories, that increases as one ages, then perhaps I should do something with it other than bore others as well as myself.

Writing is a chance to take some of that muck and make something out of it. Certainly its one of the reasons to write a private journal, to put down all that weird stuff that flows through our thoughts, mixed with immediate reaction, sensations, and memories.

Since I've started writing a blog, I quit writing in any form of journaling. I sort of acknowledged that to myself, but it is more apparent.