My hands skim through the pages desperately.
Every page heralds a fresh stinging affliction. Every word, every picture, brings back memories of loss. Bits and grains of passion, lost in the way of blindly shuffling through the same conformist path, that I used to loathe.
The book lay sprawled on my lap as I sit thoughtlessly on my bed. A scramble of smiles, mesmerizing undecipherable phrases, and telltale scribbles of frustration.
Youth.
The dates that as soon as my eyes fall on, everything turns as clear and vivid as before. As if they were never gone. They remind me that I was there.
Lying in the back of a truck.
Seated with a bunch of other guys around a fuming fire.
I was more fucked than ever. Still more human.
Unlike the youthful boy in the pictures, I am lifeless. I look myself in the mirror for the tenth time today, and I see what everyone else sees: clean, proportioned features, an unfaltering gaze, and a stoic visage.
I see everything, but myself.
The boy in the picture is alive. He is real, and has an existence in a world of his own, far from this one. He radiates turmoil and disarray, in a fascinating contrast to my monochromatic person. Yet everything I know about him falls into place so perfectly in my memories as if I have been carrying the broken pieces of him with me all along.
I look into the mirror the last time before retreating for the night. And just as the stars align on an exquisite memorable night, I see him.
A momentary anamnesis.
Whole and real, he smiles at me.
YOU ARE READING
We are here now.
Short StoryWe must dream, watch them shatter, fall apart piece by piece, agonizingly slow. We must dream again, before reality becomes a truth we can never wake up from. A parallel and gradually converging story of two different personalities of the same per...
