Sometimes
I think
of the moments I have lived
when I was only a child.
Hazy flickers of light
that reveal only a few words
in an immense chapter.
I look upon the faces of my friends
right now.
Faces that I love,
faces that I cherish.
And then I look back.
To see the faces of people
I once recognized.
Sounds that have decided
the music I would love
and to breathe
a foreign air that was once too
real.
I remember now,
but only faintly.
Like a book you have read
long ago,
a story remembered
but the details
forgotten.
But it’s the same story.
Same painting.
Same movie.
I look again
upon my friend’s faces,
all of us gathered
to make a circle.
This circle will be
a memory.
Just like
the other shapes in my mind
that would mean something
to me.
And then I look back
again
and this time I struggle.
Like a painter
trying to remember
every stroke of brush,
and like a musician
who guesses the next note.
But now
I see trees
and empty lanes pass by
and I see an unappreciated bright blue sky.
The sound of water that is
all too familiar,
but forgotten.
I look back for hints and clues.
Hints
for my friends faces.
Clues
that could tell me why I’m here.
Backtracking what has been read
Because at times I drift away.
But I find nothing.
Present
is a page I am on.
This page
is what I live.
These sentences are moments passed.
And every word is purpose.
And I look back
For Sentences
to help me know
why?
Why am I writing right now?
I do not know.
I have forgotten.
A book does not read itself,
Yet that is exactly what I do.
I look back for memories.