A Picture With no Name

Photographs are odd.  They are not real -- the moment that occurred when the photograph was taken never occurs again, but is distorted by our memories as we superimpose other moments both real and imagined.  I think that's why they make such an interesting motif in poetry -- one single image that stands for so much more.  Your poem got me thinking about all the people whose names I can't remember, and I have a fairly good memory, so I started wondering how we choose the things we keep fresh in our minds, because it's certainly not always due to liking them.  And even if we forget the small details (like names), we almost always remember humiliation and pain -- I suppose that's a survival trait, trying to ensure that we don't make the same mistakes again.  I'm sure it even works sometimes   If only, indeed.