I have always been known for my strong memory. Friends, family, and even casual acquaintances have commented on it over the years on how I can recall details from years, even decades ago, with a clarity that surprises them. It surprises me too because I always assumed everyone could remember past events with the same vividness. But that's not true. Many of my ex-school friends barely remember incidents from our school life. I remember names too. When I look at past photos, even ones from decades ago, I can point out who is who. No, I don't spend my time reminiscing or dwelling on the past. The details are just there, fresh in my mind, ready to be plucked whenever needed.
A photo with my school friends from 34 years ago. Many have become successful individuals in the community. One person has gone on to become the Director of the Malaysia Public Works Department, and another, a pediatrician.
I don't just remember past events. I remember the emotions and the atmosphere associated with those events. You could say that I'm a sensory person or someone with an eidetic memory because those vivid experiences still live within me. It could be anything—a song playing in the background, the scent of rain on warm pavement, the gentle breeze swaying the leaves, the color of the sky on a particular afternoon, or even the call of a lonesome nightbird that woke me up in the middle of the night when I was four.
Sometimes, it feels like a gift. It allows me to tell stories with depth and remember people and moments with an intimacy that others often lose to time.
Several months ago, my ex-schoolmate invited me into their chat group. I was delighted to reconnect with old friends I hadn't spoken to in more than three decades. We talked about many past incidents, mostly funny moments from that time in our lives. I told stories as if they had just happened recently. Many friends come to me when they need to piece together an old memory, to recall things they've long since forgotten. In many ways, I have become the keeper of our shared histories.
However, it is not always easy to carry so much of the past. You might think nostalgia is a wistful feeling, but to me, it's a lingering echo of what once was. Memories often return unbidden, resurfacing with the right song, a familiar scent, or a sudden shift in the wind. And sometimes, it feels like I am standing at the threshold of two worlds: one that has already been lived and one that I am trying to step into. Moving forward can be difficult when the past refuses to fade quietly.
I make art and write to make sense of it all. My poetry and art are more than just venues for self-expression—they are my way of processing, seeking closure. I have the habit of revisiting the same themes and emotions again and again until I have finally made peace with them. Only then can I move on, allowing the memory to rest. It is like closing a book. I don't erase or discard these memories; they will always exist within me. They just no longer hold power over me.
Perhaps, through all of this, I am learning how to honor the past without being held captive by it. My memories shape the person I am, but they do not confine me. And maybe, in sharing these stories—putting words or images to what lingers—I can find a way to move forward without leaving anything behind.
The handwritten draft of this post.
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