Preface.
One week while I was in sixth grade, my reading class was learning about mythology. I don't remember much about it, but some details still remain. We had to act out one story in the mythology we were learning about, and even though I didn't like most of the people in my group, we did the story about Echo. I can't really recall the details, but I was cast in the group as Echo. My lines were easy since, well, I echoed everybody's lines pretty much. But I never really understood the story until recently, and it may not even be the actual meaning of the story. It was just how I interpreted it.
When something doesn't make sense to you, sometimes you completely forget about it, lost in the many fragments of thoughts in the back of your mind. They hardly will ever come up again, but if they do, it makes you think about it more than you thought it would. Then you're pretty much stuck in your own thoughts about something you never understood in the first place. You're left confused and afraid to ask someone else about it.
When I thought about this particular memory, I pretty much just sat back and thought about it for a good while. After a while of this, I had an epiphany of some sort, if that's the correct word to describe it.
What was an echo, anyway? Just a sound bouncing off a surface back to you? If you asked me, that's not really a significant meaning to the word. It means something else, something more to me. An echo could be anything – a thought, a sentence, lyrics. But I noticed that something needs to be repeated back to you in order for you to make sense. If something is wired into your brain enough for it to echo back to you in the long run, it's important. If it doesn't, then it's just a fragment that will soon deteriorate over time. It's insignificant.
If you ask me, I have a lot of echos.