It’s funny how memory works. How you store all the small details of someone; not only their appearence, but the way they move and interact. Tonight, I tasted the best Rizskoch (rice pudding) by my Granny. I was arguing in our kitchen in Esztergom with my sister about some silly politics, and she was slicing the rice pudding up for us. She didn’t even pay attention.
I remember after my Grandfather died, I once had a dream about him, returning with our passed away first dog, ringing our door bell. When we opened the door, he was complaining about how did we dare to get a new dog.
It’s funny how memory works. You shuffle and reuse all the tiny bits while you are sleeping.
I wonder how many people among my friends and family carry a carbon copy of me in their heads, without even knowing it.
Tycho – Dream as Memory