February. It did not occur to me that it was here until I met a friend back in the hometown and took a walk, crossing streets one after the other as the dry winter air brushed my face. How time passes, how it has changed so much, and yet, I cross through them in the exact same manner as I have for years. A sort of afterimage follows me in my head; I trace its steps; it traces mine. My entire life happens all at once, and I realise that this town has many such phantasms of myself, and they are only visible to me, only recognised by me. Yet, they are there, for I run into them time and again. Many of them come from Februaries left far behind in the river of time, floating along with the debris of memory.
I crossed a street that got me closer to home, to the neighbourhood I grew up in. And I walked over the painted street—yellow and black stripes—and I wondered when they changed it. I remember the yellow used to be white. Perhaps someone ran out of white, and then the others never questioned it. But this is how things change. I heard a story once about a person who painted a pier wrong, and the people just carried it into tradition, making it the only yellow pier in the country. I do not remember the specifics. I thought about it as I glided over the empty street. And then, the breeze blew by and kissed me into nostalgia. I remembered suddenly that I was a child once and that this street was out of bounds and that getting here was once an achievement, a milestone of sorts. I wonder what month that was. Perhaps, it was February. We lose track of time so quickly.