When I hear other people tell me their stories from five or ten years ago with such detail as if they had lived them yesterday, it makes me realize of my inability to remember the details of things that happened long ago.
Sometimes I don’t have anything to say, except for a few stories that I don’t even know are stored in my head until someone mentions something that makes me remember it.
Sometimes I remember the words I heard or the exact text I read more than ten years ago and that now I repeat to myself like a mantra with a deep lesson about life, but I can’t remember the details of my graduation event, or that trip I took a few months ago whose details become ever more nebulous with time.
And that’s why I write down my memories (and you should do it too). Because I wouldn’t like to get old and realize that I don’t remember anything of significance, that I can’t narrate a story without making pauses and question the veracity of every thing I say.