Our memories maintain the minutes of emotions that make us who we are at this moment.  As I look back at my past, I contain a component of condolence while combing through my history of controlling indulgence.  But, for all the heart breaks and mistakes I’ve chosen, happiness and joy plague my mind leaving the residue of a nostalgic ganja.  I think of summers filled with friends and fun harnessing the long sun, riding bikes like kings through neighborhoods, hooping at the park for the greater good, playing baseball in the backyard, night games until curfew came to bombard our night, constantly having sleepless sleepovers that consistently consisted of reckless heckling, video games, girl talk, sports talk, movies I wasn’t old enough for and messing around until the mesh of night and day as the Sun’s light begins meddling with the moons darkness shaking the dust off of dusk.  These sacred memories have consecrated my childhood.  Like a cleric I vigorously venerate these relics and relish in their angelic peace that persuades this poetic polemic to prefer my past’s blissful presence over its many miniscule miseries.