There are things that come back to me, quick and unannounced, like jump cuts. Or perhaps I am the one thrown back. The scene cuts and I am thrown into the past, or into the world I’d rather be in. The gun gets shot prematurely. But as if in perfect, deliberate delay, I ricochet between these worlds. This right now, that right one. I am walking and there is a breeze. I know I am embraced by the acacia, I feel the unpaved road beneath my feet but now I am walking on cobblestone, and it is cool and the sun feels too gentle on my face. And chattering, in a language so foreign it is familiar, cocoons me. I am walking down this road and it leads to the wrong museum. The painting at the end is too dark, too dim. It is not that vibrant blue, the ocean that engulfed me, the white zipping through like that the hitch, that one beat resting in my throat right on the second you smiled at me for the first time. There, every curve was to a song I sang in my head, hummed with closed lips, the one that rested on my hips. but here–they are the last 100 meters in a kilometer I am always running.
And here the leaves rustle and branches shake when the wind blows. There it is clear blue, or clear grey, or just a pale sunlight. Where have I run off to now?