Bookmark #671

Woke up early this February morning with a voracious craving for nostalgia, of wanting to live some things once more, even if I know how they will end. One day, a long time ago, I had a simple, childish epiphany. I realised that nothing else mattered in the face of the little time we had for things, especially with others. Ah, I miswrote. Perhaps, a correction is in order—it was childlike, not childish. My only mistake with it, if there was any to take account of, was to think others, too, had this realisation. But it is rare, almost impossible, for people to realise things together, and surely, not in the same way. Eventually, I learned to live with this failure of judgement, and for all the trouble it has caused, it has been a valiant attempt to stay kind, and remain patient, even when no one around me, no one I meet, seems to have realised this still. I was right, of course, for the moments I held tightly were fleeting, and now, the only thing to do is to sit and remember them. In the end, this knowledge carries little weight: that I was right, that I am right, and that not a single part of it has changed.

But I can remember, and so I will, and when these days pass, them, too, I will remember. I will remind those I still share time with of how things were if they forget. Begrudgingly, I will do it, but I promise I will remain calm, and I will not lose the last smidge of my patience. I will wait, like someone waits on the other end of the shore or across the river, waiting for the others to cross. But some rapids, we must cross ourselves. So, I will pace about the bank and continue waiting, and if others don’t make it across to this understanding? Well, then, I will be the one to carry the memory they were unable to hold. To all those who worry about trivial matters to lose out on the moment at hand, I vow to remember all of it, to remember them. Perhaps, with a soft anger in my heart as I wake up with the first light and take a minute to get out of bed—the weight of everything that has happened holding me down like an anchor. A capsized boat, after all, is waiting, too, and it, too, remembers.

// if you want to support this walk to nowhere, you can pitch in here