Reconstructing;

There are some people who constantly feature as the key persons in my life. Even though we hardly keep in contact anymore, I still remember them every once in a while, and facebook is a strange affair, as if I am fingering a certain change but still lost in a certain figment of time.

As I spoke to JC, my memory as I grow up has gradually been revolving backwards. I remember most from my growing up years, the things which mattered to me, the first impact that certain people had on me, their words and little mannerisms, till the point that I forget the later part where our distancing began.

There is this fear perhaps, of drawing close, to hear that something has changed between us, that a best friend’s words at 1.27am was addressed on a certain impulse and he has grown to be someone more courageous, that we do not matter in the same way that we used to, to each other, anymore.

This is why I imagine them laughing at me. As my memories tend back to the sweetest points when we first met and the little crystal menageries that I kept at each encounter, they push and urge me to recall the later, to reflect on the present, to put into perspective my opinions for a discordant future. We are liberals desiring change. I long for an instance when the Other would sit and suddenly return to the same point in my memory, where we talk in dreams and letters, and of nothing at all. I wish I could emerge from my little time machine where I struggle to focus on what the Other is rambling on about the Present.

I don’t know what to speak about when we meet again. Has he/her changed? Is she/him still vulnerable to a certain thought or image? Does he/her still read the same books? Could we hold hands in our thoughts and share the same little epiphanies again? Whenever I meet someone close from the Old, I am peeking through the iron gates wondering about the Other’s Secret Garden and looking at the new fruit trees growing.

Distance inserts a very difficult language. And so does meeting again. We used to know each other closely and intimately once, at the age when we used to speak to ourselves in our thoughts, when we were still finding ourselves. Now, eight years later, and I don’t know what I can ask about your thoughts, except that from other experiences, I do not really have the courage to ask you about how you really feel, and whether you remember me.

There it is. We remember certain people as Photographs, as The Memories. I remember certain people as the Letters, the Crystal Swan, the Menageries. They are still a part of my living, my curiosity, and I don’t know how to tell them this at all.

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