Our lives are haphazard collections of vague images, maybes and dreams.
I’m walking through a house I have dreamt about for a year. I could not know what it would be like to smell the bedsheets freshly laundered, to taste steak sizzling on the stove, to make love on the kitchen table and laugh when we stumble through broken buildings.
Outside it is raining and the lights in here are dim. Every one of my bones feels frozen, as though I’ve just woken up from a long, long sleep and can’t quite figure out what I dreamt and what I felt. Maybe I have. Maybe everything I’m dreaming is something I’ve just become immersed in.
It’s going to rain for the whole weekend, but fourteen hours flight away my father lives in a world that sees rain three days a year, where the heat melts your sandals on the pavement, and shoulders and knees can mean extradition. It’s a world I can’t imagine, but I’m trying.
My mother is at home in a place I don’t remember the smells of. My cat sleeps on my bed and I can’t remember what it feels like to pick her up and hear her purr.
The past is just synapses firing, and the future is just imagination. All we have is the present and it might not be a gift. It might not even be.
Beyond our bodies, our experiences mean nothing.
It will keep raining. We could melt away into the gutter and all our memories that we struggle so hard to cling to would melt with us.
We’re just thought entombed in flesh.