Are we made up of only the things we have accomplished?
No. We are all our failed projects as well, because we ever dared to dream we could do them, even for a split second.
Are we only the love we have or do not have for ourselves?
No. We are all the smiles we ever gave out to strangers, all the embraces we ever shared with those we cared about, all our asymmetrical love relationships, all the first kisses and first tracings of bodies.
Are we only our sense of self, our own narrative, coherent or…else?
No. We are all the coherence we sense in others, and we are even all our pieces of puzzle, fitting or missing. We are whole through our cracks, we are holes in the sky, so that, you know…the light gets in.
And beyond all this clutter of words said and unsaid, dreams lived and just dreamt, letters written and forgotten or never answered,
we are this all-encompassing moment.
And it smells of rain and wet earth, early visits to the marketplace, where the peasants are arranging their merchandise. It sounds like morning traffic, ambulances wailing and bikes honking their tiny honks while cars rush frantically past.
And it feels like a good time to be.