Bits of a memory

And perhaps this is, in a way, the creation of another memory. Maybe we’ll come across this little scrap one day, when clearing out dusty piles of clutter that don’t seem so old, and we will, in our uppity way, laugh at how childish it were of me to try and draw something that can only be felt for one fleeting moment.

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Funny how our na?ve, simplistic childhood, whose immaturity we are quick to scorn, brought things into perspective; looking back, we might learn, if nothing else, that much of what we stress over (because we do not get what we desire) is stress for nothing at all. What are these desires if not the originators and willing components of a never-ending, vicious materialistic circle without a purpose?

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Lengthy way-beyond-midnight talks that would be about everything and nothing. Comfortable silences that no words could best.

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Extraordinary, isn’t it, this realization that our pursuit of goals was just a chase that would end nowhere if we did not put an end to it ourselves. That upsets, both big and little, would come and go, and life would still go on – it would have to. That people would not change no matter what face they put on, and that if you were fed up with something there was no getting round it or running away; no matter how tightly you closed your eyes and wished it away, the mess would still be there and you’d still be left to deal with it. Even more extraordinary how we learnt of and agreed upon all of this on a sticky, dark night, intoxicated by the possibility of ?learning? that the moment held – and then threw it away the next morning, and went back to live our lives.

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Wanting and hoping to be something/someone wildly impossible, trying and failing a comfortable, satisfied failure: the failure that knows you’ve given it your everything.

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How awkward to have rushed epiphanies that reeked of the need for self-knowledge in order to make a change, epiphanies that would bring you back to reality very effectively when you remembered what it was that you’d known all along: you cannot change others, not even complain about them, no, unless you are first willing to fully know, critique and change yourself.

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The feeling brought about by a warm hand that fits in yours so perfectly; fingers that will intertwine with yours put a period to these dizzying thoughts. 

Kimberly Fernandes, Qatar

Author: Kimberly Fernandes- Qatar