Some memories are like precious silverware. On a dull day you gently lift them out of their case, and relish the soft gleam of its polished surface as though for the first time. As your fingers caress the intricate carvings a song ease its way into your mind, and you put away the memories for another gloomy day.
Some others are shards of a once treasured dream shattered not so long ago. You had hastily cleaned up the mess, yet invisible to your eyes countless sharp shards remain to pierce your flesh with fresh pain.
And then there are those that thrive in the region just beneath your consciousness. Without any apparent reason a long forgotten picture is thrown into your mind, and you see it wholly for the first time and grasp it, only too late. An ember pours out its brilliant gold and fades instantly, and within you someone stands holding a fistful of grey ash, hands singed.