Moments are fiction

Anna Cuba

The fragility of moments is what we all think we know, and we don’t, really.

We remember them when we are nearly dying, or sick or lose it.

It is already gone when we think we know what it is. We are always too late for so many things. So smart and knowing the way of the world, but miss that moment to tell what the heart is saying. Thinking there will be plenty of time after, when there is actually none because that moment is all there is, and just like that, it is gone and it cannot be traced back again, because I told you, it’s all there is.

Repetition comes to mind when getting out of bed with the left foot touching the floor first and roaming in the dark to find the cardigan which is usually hanging on the chair in front. Eating the same brand bread every morning, catching the same bus at the same time, and sitting on the left side to watch the sky change from black to blue to pink and orange to grey and white and blue again, and that fascination and the agony of the same day all over again, like you’re playing the same scene so many times and you cannot go on, you are trapped in a moment which is passing anyways but no existing.

I would rather not have any attachments to the surrounding people because they are all going to leave anyway, and there will be nothing left but remnants, moments become memories which are pure imagination of your own mind recreating the episode each time according to our current context. That means everything will be a collection of fiction, yes, you are all a writer of your own life. because we are all writing what we want to see, what we want to hear, what we want to remember in order to justify and keep alive the current self.

Wondering which was real, it becomes difficult to determine reality, imagination/memory and dreams.

Don’t trust what you think you know. It is already gone, moments have passed and now you are living in a sort of fantasy.






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