Where does the time we live go?
Yesterday I was a child. Or so it seems. When did all these seasons pass?
Narration generated with a synthetic voice.
I found an old photograph. I hold it between my fingers and look at the person who did not yet know how much was going to happen to him. That was me. And yet I want to speak to him as though he were a stranger.
I would like to tell him not to hurry. To stay at the table a little longer. To ask one more question. But I remember that his very haste was his way of believing in the future.
Where does the time we live go? Not the time on the clock. That moves forward without asking permission. I am thinking of an afternoon. Of a journey shared with someone. Of the voice I never recorded because I thought I would always hear it.
Perhaps something remains in the way I behave. The words of someone dear to me find their way, without my noticing, into my own. A gesture learned long ago moves my hands. Time is not only what I have lost. It is also what has made me.
That does not free me from regret. There are still evenings I wish I could live again. But perhaps the desire to go back is telling me something about today.
This day, too, will become a photograph. Or not even that. What would I like to remember of it?
I put the photograph away. Outside, the light is changing. I walk to the window and, this time, I stay for a while.
Now stay with yourself for a moment.
What do you think?
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