Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Sustagen ad. haha

a required writing assignment for my fave class. :D
What to me matters the most
     She is only 27 and already, she is a grandmother. Everyday, at about the same time, she goes to our house demanding that we take care of her puppies for she is leaving for the city. She gets random goats and takes them to a nearby coconut tree. No she is not mentally ill, she has senile dementia. My late grandmother, right up before she died has suffered for several years the illness that made her forget almost everything that happened to her and only remembers, for a fraction of a time ,those from about 50 years ago. In fact, she does not only remember but also live within that memory forcing us to take care of her imaginary puppies and tormenting the neighbor’s goat by bringing it to where she used to bring the goat she once owned. This very grandmother has made me understand one important fragment that allows me to be more human: my memories.
     Memories, may it be good or bad is an essential part of a person’s being. Without memories, sins as well as good deeds will have little or no value for things done do not live an imprint except that it has been done; who did it, what effect it had, will never be known for it is forgotten as soon as it has been executed. Thinking about it, I could not fathom a life without memories. However dark, these memories somehow aid us in determining who is part of our life, to whom do we owe it to, and perhaps who or what we live for. Remembering the television advertisements that I saw about medicines that help us strengthen our memory is proof enough for me of how crucial our memories are in our lives.
     While lack of recall can be a good thing as it erases all memories of experiences, like when I made a fool of myself in the classroom croaking through a supposedly beautiful song, I would rather keep that memory with me (and if others can remember it too) than lose all of it entirely. Losing my memories would mean losing my appreciation of the smell of garlic being sautéed for its ability to conjure up images back to my hometown where my mother cooks up something really delicious during lunch. The time when my father brought me fruits and made me egg soup when I was sick is but one of the many memories I have of him that I would never want to forget. Even the memory of how I cried myself out for my first heartache, humiliation, etc, is something that I remember, though admittedly I cringe too, with fondness. These memories help me regard life with more zeal. Clearly, life without it is literally empty. No inklings of who the people are around you, no remembrance of the first love, nothing at all. Absence of memories meant leaving the world as you have not existed.
     Books have been written to preserve what people from the past did. In the old times, monks spent a lot of time writing in ink events that transpired at the time. The burning of Confucius’ books in China is up until now recalled with so much regret for the loss of what could have been additions to a huge pool of philosophical idea. My grandmother, although she suffered from the illness was still lucky for she still remembers fractions of her life, however vague and out-of-date. She is made more lucky, for the people she left behind (like me) has never in a day forgotten how she used to sweep the yard so we kids could play without the danger of getting wounded by shards or small stones.