Lately, I have caught myself stopping, almost for a split second—or even shorter, almost a minuscule slice of time. I have caught myself stopping to glimpse at what is around me, the little details like the texture of the paint on the wall, the bird in the distance, the space around me, my own palms and the ridges on them, and at first I thought this must be a new quirk out of the many I know I possess, and perhaps, it is just that, but I believe it serves a purpose. I believe I did it so I remember the moment, the exact moment, and not an informed memory of it. It has held me down on days that are ever long and ever exhausting.
Just today—it could not have been forty minutes past four—I stopped for a second and realised the entire room had a sudden golden hue. The setting sun out in the distance had dyed it so, and the beige curtains—normally colourless and absent—had played their part. It all came together like a beautiful script every actor had a part, and it occurred to me that I, too, was on that stage. I could not have been more important than the mug full of coffee, resting quietly on the rug, but I was there, and I belonged. I believe that is when I realised that the day had not slipped through my fingers yet, and I pulled myself back into form. An hour or so later, I took a walk outside a little bit after that. When I looked at the city descending towards the end of the day, I realised I still had gold in my eyes.