Memories abused.

I've been reading alot at work lately.
(Because there is nothing to do)
Somehow, the books that I've taken to read these days are those family oriented types. Guess I have mellowed from the gruesome reads OR the ridiculous romance.

From My Sister's Keeper, I went on to buy Vanishing Act.
Its not fantastic really. Not like the sob-sob book My Sister's Keeper was.
But it set me thinking abit...
On memories, and how a person's life is really based on the type of memories that he/she once had. A person's memory is really powerful. But really.. its all in the mind. Your memory is determined by your brain.
What you choose to remember and what you choose to leave out is solely up to you.
The strange thing is.

My memories are what I hold close, and I see those fuzzy images in my head sometimes. But I wonder, so what are the memories like to another? Are the same memories I remember forgotten by another? Or do they have a different set of memories altogether?
Namely the ones that I've forgotten.

So I realised..
It doesn't really matter anymore.
My memories are but only mine.
I have memories that are fading. Ones that consist of you, you or you.
BUT.. you do not have the same memories as me. What I remember and what you remember are different.

Suddenly.
Memories feel so insignificant.

I was fortunate to have had a happy childhood.
(At least to me, I felt it was a happy and good one)
It's times like these (when I read a book that makes me think) that I realise my depression pales in comparison to what others are going through. In the first place, I do not even understand why I should be depressed to begin with.
Or perhaps I just don't see it.

I have finished reading Vanishing Act and am reading A man called Dave. This is the final book of a triology which I did not read. I thought I'd skim only the first chapter just to pass time.. And I realise after I did.. I could not put the book down. The story (a true story) was a really sad tale of a child, cruelly abused by his own mother, the only person in the world he should trust. Imagine growing up as a kid in that kinda family.

So I was never abused during childhoo.
Why should I be in the neverending depressive rut?