Some parts of my life, I don’t honestly remember. The features that I do, I do vividly, are usually tied to either a phrase, a name or nickname, a place, or some other tag that helps me recall, either the memory itself or the story of it.
At times, I’m glad for it. Other times, I kind of lament over the pieces I’ll never be able to recall on my own. I remember what others have told me at parts of my life, or their encounters with me, but I have no memory of my own of them, at times. It’s just like there are blank spaces that I can’t fill in. I used to call them black-out periods in my memories because I honestly have no memories of those times.