like a song

Today I walked home from the office. I believed I had enough time, not to say that much, to take a stroll, thinking on the way. I always think about something while having a walk. It was not a long road though, just two kilometres. And along the way, I have seen several couples, who, in a flash, reminded me that I used to be like them. I was not nostalgic then, in fact. It was just like a French song that I really liked when I listened to it on a channel of RTBF devoting totally in French music, all old songs. The only words that I can remember, from the song, are “en Italie”. I told myself while listening to the song that I would try to remember the lyrics, to search for it in the Internet afterwards. But my memory was defeated. It was, perhaps, several weeks ago. And I has opened the web player almost every day ever since, just to catch the song. But I could not. And it was quite the same feeling when I recall some images from my previous relationships, in a moving collage that was sometimes played in my mind like a broken trailer of a bad film. It was that the song was beautiful, and you loved it, just like the way some moment was beautiful, and you were a part of it, you loved it. It was all that mattered. Just that. Like a song that you loved, but could not hear again. It was lost, maybe forerver. You can hear it somewhere, in the future, when, it is likely that you cannot even discern that it is the song that you’d ever loved long long time ago.

Sometimes I open the note in my phone, in which I scribbled something that came across my mind when I was in the bus, through the night, before we, I and my college friends, were on a ferry to the island where we passed a weekend, just to find out that my memory is hopelessly terrible, and to know that there was another me that had this and that thought. The note has in the least helped me remember that I once thought, or recalled, about the times my mother took me with her to the local market back home, when I was a child, on her bicycle. I would have some cakes in a stall, while staring at the opposite stall, where they were selling sweetened bean soup. There were butchers’, footwear shops, and so many more…

Sometimes I stare out of the window in my room and don’t know who I am.

The late afternoon, I watched the sea, and the islets nearby, and the stones beneath the water, with trash dispersed around and corroding parts of a long forgotten structure that was once promising to become a building, I was not sure.

… like a song…

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