The past is what we see in the rear-view mirror. For some, this innocuous reflective device serves as a first-line navigational aid. They go forward, knuckles whitened, by looking backward.
Men who love themselves do not contradict (from the Latin for speak against) themselves. Self-criticism is truly the grievous error. Many have perished out there, on the hot sands of their own contempt.
We are confined, defined and encrusted by memory.
The more memories we have, the more conditioned, patterned and habitual we are. Yes, we need a few memories to provide us with a basic identity, but beyond that slight necessity accumulated memory serves no purpose.
Many of us are so weighted with memory, so neurally grooved, that we have become flesh-bots. Our next spontaneous act will be our first.
The more memory as man has, the more resentful and unforgiving he is.
What we do not remember, we will not repeat.
Cows vomit their food in order to re-chew it. Men are similarly engaged, are wetly ruminant, when they regret the past.
A moment spent in regret is a moment squandered.
Memories: “The rag and bone shop of the heart.”