Our hearts are like the porcelain jar my aaji uses to store her precious spices. She says the jars protects the spices from any kind of damage and keeps it fresh for years. The thing about this process is that once the spice is made you can store it in the jar and stash it in the attic. Something very similar to the way we make our memories, we live them first, then we store them inside the deep cervices of our hearts, only to resurface in aches, pains, and sadness. Or love, pleasure, and happiness. We pour them out only to find out that even with our best efforts to preserve them they don’t remain fresh and vivid forever, just like how the spice fades in color, taste, and potency, in the same way, our memories become off-color, unsavory, and faint. They are a remainder and a reminder of what was once lived and felt. Even when we try to bury them deep in our hearts and souls in the hope that they remain untouched and intact from outside forces, we realize that nothing cheats time. Time wilts just like it shriveled my aaji and dulled her spices. It tamed the ferocity and the intensity of the spice. Just like it fades our memories and experiences, and our feeling attached to them. Time makes everything appear different, feel different, taste different, sound different, smell different. Time makes everything different.