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#momentsintransit

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The city didn't turn out to be what she had expected. A little more hustle and bustle would have been nice.
Perhaps it was her own doing.
Perhaps not.
She felt dormant.
The routine, the job, the isolation…
It’s a cliquey city they’d tell her.
Yet as the years went by, one by one, she found the things she sought.
Like anything, good things tend to come to those who wait; more so to those who don't.
So she changed.
Changed her habits.
Changed her hobbies.
Changed her hair.
Changed herself.
Not for better or worse, just different.
To adapt.
We all adapt.

Or perhaps it was the city after all.

What age were we when we last held hands?

I was seven.
I pulled you forwards, like the fate of the world depended on it, to see me do a backflip in the little park behind our house.
It was summer. We were playing. I could sense your sadness.

You were thirty-five.
Your thoughts pulled you far behind. Back home, to the kitchen, where you were arguing.
I remember asking, 'Are you going to get a divorce?' You smiled.
'I don’t know' you said.
You didn’t.

She imagined memory as an infinite white space beyond the borders of what is now.
A place in which the things she remembered emerged out of the vast emptiness. A burst of color in an all engulfing world of light.

So often she'd forget.
A face, a thought, a hope, an old lover, her first kiss. Not the one that mattered, but the actual first one. The one that happened during a game they played when they were twelve or thirteen, that moment was gone.
Only the context remained, sitting there as a constant reminder of what she’s lost. The image of two kids standing back to back turning their heads in sync with the eternal 'will they / won’t they?'
Or perhaps it was a game of a spin the bottle.
She blamed herself, trivializing such things, such events. She vowed never to forget again.

So she kept lists.
Groceries, to dos, favourite TV shows, least favourite songs, people she's met on the street.
She believed that out there, in the vast horizon of white, those memories exist.
Those thoughts prevail.
Like the red poppy flower she picked when she was a three.
She remembered that.
She remembered how, as her hand retracted inward to examine the flower she saw a bee for the very first time. And How at that very moment the bee decided that that flower belonged to it and no one else.

She remembered that.
Sometimes, she concluded, memories hurt.

He was reminded of the little forest by his childhood home. The large eucalyptus trees that seemed to grow wild in the center of the city.
Relics of another time.
He recalled the day they all went out in search for bats in the tree tops.
They were ten.
And all they could think of back then was that the danger was real.
It wasn’t.
Nevertheless, adventure called.
Now, twenty years later, the trees seemed smaller, those friends long gone.
But the bats were still there.
And adventure was still waiting just around the corner.

She picked a spot in the horizon and gazed straight through it. ‘Between here and there lies eternity’, she thought.
All of life.
All of love.
Everything.
Between here and there we exist.

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