If only I could write them all.

It has been easy giving in to reveries during idle moments, like traveling. Almost every part of the road reminds me of a thing in the past. Every now and then, a flash of memory. I cannot help but treasure them. If only I could write them all, perhaps I would. If only I could put into words every beautiful detail of moments that are worth etching on my head, I would. Even if it is pointless to write. Even if it is impossible, because it takes ending a routine and slowly exposing the self to the fact that it is indeed ending, like how Stephen King says time draws out like a blade for Andy Dufresne, to juice out such memories. Even if it is only at the instance of recalling that memories become memories, and trying to put them somewhere aside from the mind feels like giving the away. (Come to think of it, maybe I will not write after all.)

It is funny, actually, this whole process of remembering. I twist my head to see even just through the corner of my eyes the sun, and feel even just on one of my cheeks the air. It is almost enjoying self-inflicted pain. But then the world shows that it is waiting, as if asking where the focus I've been talking about is. And I run, as if to say I've almost forgotten.

At least an hour and a half later I realise that the persistence of an end changes the routine of things. And so it is no longer enough to see to remember, it is almost required to imagine. Suppose it is three hours later. Suppose my knees are shaky and I am weary from endless rolls. Suppose the sun rays are just unsharpened today. At times I get so convincing that I believe. Other times I am in touch with reality.

I do not aim to try to stretch time out for me, though. I do not want in any way to affect how time must flow. I believe, as ironic as this sounds, I'm just trying to enjoy the ride.