Fond Recall

I guess I ought to acknowledge that it's strange, All the memories of you that are stockpiled inside me, Along with those of all the rest--my world. It's a wonder that I can still remember or recall Those distant moments, not so important even then, Except to me. Now all are Worn down, grown thin, elapsed, Semi-forgotten yet there nonetheless. Why do I even care? Why not let them go, Diminish, retaining nothing, Grow dim like something burnt up so long ago It sheds no further light?