You know what would be nice? Being able to live two separate lives which converge at the point where I made that weird turn, yeah, that turn. Then I’d be able to see which of those lives could’ve been better, discard one and relive the other.
But I certainly cannot do that.
Now I wonder and wonder and wonder, what if what if what if… What if I still heard the rackety trains going by at night while the shadow of raindrops drew patterns on the white wardrobe, what if the river still dominated my landscape, what if grey were still the most fashionable color in nature… What if I hadn’t chosen distance, and with it forgetfulness… For then I made another turn, a violent one, and I still cannot resign myself to the idea of such a loss.
These roads weren’t made to do any reverse motion, but sometimes they twist and twirl until you get to see them again —maybe from a bridge, maybe right there in a crossroad, made to be retaken at another point…