I wonder how unfair it is for moments to be ephemeral, to pass by us like trains whizzing past dainty stations, like a wind that caresses our skin and flesh but leaves no trace of it behind. I wonder how it would have been if we could somehow clench our fists and lock them in our fingers, freeze them and box them up in jars of wishful reminiscence, only to be able to open the lid someday when we are old and frail and let these moments waft into our senses and nourish our deprived sensibilities. I wish moments weren’t so transient all the time, I wish they weren’t just a whirlwind, a blur, but an elixir that can fill the chasms in the verity of our being. After all, life is but a mere patchwork of moments itself, some torn and worn out, and some vibrant in their existence, some dead and in fond remembrance, and some yet to be born.


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