They're everywhere, these fantasticly infintesimal moments that got us to today. When did they all become memories? Why must the past evade us? The solemn creaking of the train on ill oiled tracks, the people with their screens and their music and their blank stares, the children with their glum faces, to old to stare out the window, not yet aged enough to see the irristitable pull of now.
When did it all become a figment of before, an unquenchable thirst for "then?"
In the moment, we never think that this, THIS will be the story they tell to reminice. This will be what my grandparents chuckle about, at a dinner table laden with stories to feed the mind, to starve off forgetfulness. Yet it does. They do. This, of all else. THIS. Now. Where you stand or sit, run or play, THIS is what stories are made of.
On the swaying train, dancing to the beat of ill oiled tracks. The people surrounded by natures wonders and technological wonders and their own wonders, the people with their blank stares, trying to remember.
This, of all else.