The Mystery of Memory

My memory is a storehouse. A vast ocean of images, collected by my five senses, the library of all I learned. I know not how each image forms, Though I know which sense brought them in. I know not how memory works, but I know when it’s not working. In memory I meet myself. “What, when and where I did a thing, and how I felt when I did it.” My joys and sorrows are stored there. This vast cave of my memory, with its numerous recesses. Receives all things and stores them up, to be brought forth when required. These things consist of bits and bytes, of information quite diverse. Filed and stored in categories, like Dewey’s Decimal System. When I go into my storehouse, I ask what I want to come forth. Some things appear quite easily, others must be sought and dragged out. Some things are like unruly boys, they come in crowds when not needed. These I dismiss with hand of heart, Till that which I seek for appears. Even when sitting in darkness, memory can bring forth colors. With my tongue at rest, and silent, yet I can sing as my soul wills. Great is my memory’s power, and exceedingly great my God. Who can plumb this ocean’s vast depth? or understand its mysteries? Why did you give this gift to me? Great God Almighty can it be, my memory is a mirror, reflecting my likeness to Thee?