This day is special.
Or, at least I have made it so. Every event, which we consider special, becomes an anniversary. The quality of the event notwithstanding, we return back to the “this-day-that-year” concept; we either celebrate or down ourselves in something that’s fluid — like feelings, memories and emotions. The day itself doesn’t care. It does not participate. It just continues to be a day.
Humans time-travel all the time. Just that they keep flying back. To “what was”, in which they embed, “what-could-have-been”. And these flights have names: Nostalgia, memories, and such. Life, becomes an unmanageable spreadsheet of what-if analysis. On lesser occasions, we fly to the future. But never to the real future. We never get there. We only reach the imagined future. The imagined future is a construct of our past. It’s synthetic.
Enough of this “we, they, us.”
To exit a building, I have to close more than one door behind me. I just closed one and I thought I was out. But the way out is more arduous than I thought. The room, the floor, the elevator, the main gate. It takes a while to get out. And the architecture of some buildings is misleading. I took four doors, and I have no idea if I have exited the building. Too much of living in the building has dulled my street sense, I think.
Long time ago, I came into this building from the street. Yet it seems, I am unable to find my way to the street.
What’s that smell? What’s that sound?
There are oily-rings in this tea of over heated milk. I look out towards the street. I am on time, but he isn’t. Deep inside I am willing to let go off this tea, but I am unwilling that he would believe that he got here before me. The tea is my witness. This oil-ringed tea is witness that I have lived my values.
Hello street. It has been a while. Howdy. Good to be back. Whatsay? Yes.
I left the building.