mist

A few days ago, what I think to be my first memory came to my mind.

I was around 4 years old and playing in the walkway of the second house in which I lived, the first I have memories of. I remember a little plastic police motorbike, battery powered, one of those children can mount on. Probably broken, I remember I was pulling it with a white nylon string. I remember noisily towing it on the gravel, the white wall of the house on my left, the green bushes on the right. The sky was of an unresolved grey. What I distinctly remember is the white nylon string and my father’s hands firing the flame of a lighter to melt the string and break it. A short instant of which nearly nothing remains today.

I have no memory of why he cut the string, an answer that is likewise lost in the mist of time.

A lot of our existence ends up wrapped in this fog nearly instantaneously. Is in that fog that we walk every day and in which everything is gradually slipping away from us; in which features, smells and sounds flakes apart until they vanish.

That fog, in which all of us are destined to become, soon or later, faraway undefined silhouettes.

Done