Today as I was walking somewhere along Pasig, I thought I saw a boy that I had left in the past. There he was just walking toward me, laughing with friends I didn’t know, wearing clothes that weren’t familiar, his hair was cut in a style I had never seen him wear. That was always what we were. Everything was always so new with each other, simply because we were never really a part of each others’ lives. We shared glimmers, just glimmers. And sometimes there were some long moments that were allowed to pass through the cracks when we were both unguarded, forgetting that we were momentary lapses in judgment. On both sides.

The funny thing about us people is that we think of time as an object that we have. We give it, we hoard it, we use it unwisely and with no caution. We miss it when it’s gone. We seem to think that time has been handed to us by God as a way to be able to share something universal, something that every single person in the world had as well. But we’ve got it all wrong, you see. Our time is in people, and places, and things. The time we have and had and are going to have are in people and places and things and in thoughts and in words and in actions. Time is not an object. It is alive. It is encapsulated in vessel that will go on its own way when it is no longer meant to to be with you. And that is how it haunts you. Our time is a living and breathing mass of memories that can never really be experienced and can only be truly remembered. Remembered, in purest form, in the people and places and things that we had chosen to put our time in. That our time has chosen to go into.

So there it was, the last few years of my life walking toward me. It was unbeknownst to the other party that the world had stopped. That as soon as I saw that familiar face, I was sixteen again and the feelings that I had were far too simple for me to believe were real. As I got nearer, as the seconds passed and I felt every fiber in my being come alive and my heart started remembering just how alive it used to feel.

It wasn’t even him.

Time is not an object, you see. It is in people and places and in things, and it is never really lived it is only really remembered and re-lived again and again and again and again. And again.


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