Memory, for Aristotle, is not storage. It is a power that moves — a capacity within the soul that conveys you toward something, and does so from within you, from your own changes, your own accumulated alterations. The Greek is careful: you are conveyed *from yourself*, which means the passage back is not retrieval but transit. Something in you has been changed by the original experience, and that change is what carries you now.

This cuts against the way we habitually think of remembering as a kind of mental filing — finding the right drawer, pulling the record. Aristotle's picture is stranger and more bodily: you are moved by what you have already undergone. The pathos deposited in the soul becomes a vector. Memory is thus continuous with desire and with motion, which is why Aristotle treats it in the same neighborhood as imagination — phantasia — rather than in the neighborhood of pure intellect.

What follows from this is that forgetting is not a failure of storage but a kind of immobility, a loss of the conveyance. And what you cannot be conveyed toward, you cannot grieve, cannot want back, cannot even know is missing. The soul's relationship to its own past is a question of whether the changes within it still have enough force to move.