“That’s not Earth; that’s our sun. You can’t see Earth from here.”
“I can see it. I have a good memory.”
“It’s not the same, you fool.” said Hitchcock suddenly. There was a touch of anger in his voice. “I mean see it. I’ve always been that way. When I’m in Boston, New York is dead. When I’m in New York, Boston is dead. When I don’t see a man for a day, he’s dead. When he comes walking down the street, my God, it’s a resurrection. I do a dance, almost, I’m so glad to see him. I used to, anyway. I don’t dance anymore. I just look. And when the man walks off, he’s dead again.”
Clemens laughed. “It’s simply that your mind works on a primitive level. You can’t hold to things. You’ve got no imagination, Hitchcock old man. You’ve got to learn to hold on.”
“Why should I hold onto things I can’t use?” said Hitchcock, his eyes wide, still staring into space. “I’m practical. If Earth isn’t here for me to walk on, you want me to walk on a memory? That hurts. Memories, as my father once said, are porcupines. To hell with them! Stay away from them. They make you unhappy. They ruin your work. They make you cry.”
“I’m walking on Earth right now,” said Clemens, squinting to himself, blowing smoke.
“You’re kicking porcupines. Later in the day you won’t be able to eat lunch, and you’ll wonder why, ” said Hitchcock in a dead voice. “And it’ll be because you’ve got a footful of quills aching in you. To hell with it! If I can’t drink it, pinch it, punch it, or lie on it, then I say drop it in the sun. I’m dead to Earth. It’s dead to me. There’s no one in New York weeping for me tonight. Shove New York. There isn’t any season here; winter and summer are gone. So is spring, and autumn. It isn’t any particular night or morning; it’s space and space. The only thing right now is you and me and this rocket ship. And the only thing I am positive of is me. That’s all of it.”
By: Ray Bradbury
My note: this is how I feel about memories sometimes. How they can ruin you, or how they sometimes never feel like they were real at all.