Wandering around at night in a busy city, silent alongside other people, conversing with those in our minds, I am asked a question. A simple question. Something cute, something flirty, perhaps. It leads me away from the happy future and reminds me of something, someone. The thoughts turn from amusing to reminiscent. Outside my head, a keyboard is being played by a ridiculously talented busker and the melody is familiar. Everything is familiar. I lose track of what I was thinking for a bit; but then it comes back. It was something I have dreamed about. Something I have written about. I never thought it would affect me this much. In fact, it does not affect me that much. Yet it comes back, every now and then. What do I do with these thoughts? What does it mean? What lesson do I take from it?
I remember then, that I am not in a movie or book, that things in life just happen and irony is simply coincidence. There is no plot or storyline that someone else will view. There is no foreshadowing for a reader to analyse or notice. Events occur and lessons do not necessarily need to be learned. Nor do I have to forget. There is nothing that I need to do to my memories. I can simply remember, with no grief, no moral at the end, no dramatic action to show that I am feeling something.
What am I feeling though? It is a strange melancholy, one that does not easily lend itself to comparisons or metaphors, one that likes to sit alone, pondering in a dark room. Not unhappy, but slightly sad. Regretful but without the negative components. Like a long sigh after accepting… something..?
Ah, words. I have run out of words. I don’t know enough anymore. My experiences expand but my vocabulary stays small.