There’s a misconception old people hold. That is, not moving from our places keeps us close to the people we’ve always known. It could be true if everyone else stayed as well, as long as we are destined to be buried in the same soil one after the other. We could plant ourselves firmly at this place, be loyal to this moment of togetherness. We could be proud of our familiarity with each other. A small fragment of information on all things favourite, fools us into prolonged association. Like we are adding pages to the story of this place, to history, to this part of the timeline.
That feeling of belongingness is a grave illusion.
Someone might be living just a few doors away along the same street. Somebody could be showing up daily, in a regular sober fashion. At one random occasion, a totally bizarre feeling might sting you deep. That moment, you’d realize you are moving away from familiar people. Then you’d recede and withdraw. You’d want to reduce your footprints in other’s lives. That’s when you yearn for a fresh restart, you rehearse a first-time-meeting with a fictitious someone, with whom you can share your past by editing out distasteful embarrassments, at an unknown place where nobody recognizes you, not even your own shadow.
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