Breath, Eyes, Memory

your memory. It is perhaps the most important factor to all tasks in life. And many do not realize its profound effect on nearly everything. In the earliest developmental stages of life, your memory is integral as you teach yourself how to survive through your limited perspective of the world. You will remember what you learned at this point in your life, but not through the same type of memory that you can look back to.

Its incarnadined surface is a source of mystery, another one of our town’s curiosities. Sixty years ago—but how my memory dims!—I saw the red take hold. I saw wicked things rising from the lake, and when they left, they took my brother with them. My brother was born a silent thing in the midst of a harsh winter. At four years old, I was struck dumb by his beauty; he had wide pale eyes and lips that made me understand the meaning of rosebud. I envied him, knowing he’d be loved more than me. I should’ve

dripping with terrifying memories. The word reeks of sadness and teardrops. This word, death, seems like it is impossible to accept. Death is like a dark room that slowly gets smaller, eventually crushing you. I was in that room when my mother died on February 18, this past Saturday. I was crushed. I can still see her on her deathbed, her bright blue eyes that were once full of life and excitement slowly fading into a despondent gray. Although, when she held my face, her eyes looking into mine, I could

applies to my life. In many instances, these two sentences have opened my eyes and made me feel lucky. In the rush of everyday life, people get caught up in the nonsense and forget to hold on to what really matters most. Nothing can last forever. In some cases this might be a blessing, but once you find something amazing, stop and take a look around. This moment can never be perfectly preserved, so take a deep breath and soak it all in, because it can

“Daddy, daddy, throw me in again!” I called to my dad as I doggy-paddled towards him in the water. “Okay, but just one more time Cruz. Then daddy needs a rest.” He look at me with so much love in his eyes. He lifted me up under my armpits and picked me up high. “Ready?” He asked. “Yes! Yes!” I giggled, looking down at him. He dipped me down a little before lifting me all the way up and tossing me sideways into the waves. I laughed as my head reemerged from the water and kept laughing

scholars, and students alike, the imagery, syntax, and diction of the poem clearly support the interpretation that Roethke writes “My Papa’s Waltz” to illustrate a childhood memory with his intoxicated abusive father. Some might argue the fact that it may be about a dance, or that it might be about a fond and happy memory of them dancing at the house after a hard day of work; however, his use of negative connotations say otherwise. Roethke’s use of diction throughout the entire poem helps the reader

I opened my eyes and found myself looking into a sizable mirror atop a colossal mahogany desk. The dark wood was cool and smooth beneath my fingertips and brought goose bumps to my skin. The room was dark but I could still see the rich blue paint on the walls and the classic paintings on the wall. There were paintings by Monet, Picasso, Leonardo da Vinci and other world-renowned artists. I wanted to rush over to the paintings and exam every last detail and commit it to memory. Something pulled me

forgiving and the role of forgiveness in psychotherapy. “ Bonar, C. A. (1989). Personality theories and asking forgiveness. Journal of Psychology and Christianity, 8 (1), 45-51. Learning to forgive those whom hurt you may have lasting memories. When those las ting

the entire morning of it is gone from my memory. My desk sat second in the column, the fifth and furthest row from the door. The movie Sybil wrapping up on the screen off to the side of me. We all sat in the general sleepy fog as the lights switched back on, putting the room back into normal academic mode. My eyes shot around the room, spending a second to scan all the cheesy teacher posters and quotes from Freud that hung on the walls. I yawned as my eyes zoned out, hearing bits and pieces of my

Chapter 11- The Giver places his hands on Jonas and gives him his first real memory. A the beginning, Jonas is scared he will fall asleep. He was suddenly cold, and the air was changing. His breath was cold, his tongue suddenly touched the cold air. He was now filled with energy he was no longer frightened. The hands are no longer felt on Jonas’s back. Jonas sticks out his tongue and catches a snowflake on his tongue. The sensation makes him smile. Half his brain knows that he was still in the Annex