A Slight, Unnoticed Tilt

What allows us to meet at the center is description alone. I want to try to recount everything, to make my way toward you.

Living in the same city, we are bound by histories that existed before us. They define our origins, shape where we begin each day, and determine the circumstances of our first encounters. Yet once we meet, we begin to entangle these meanings. Sometimes, these exchanges lead us to meet again. And when we do, we have the chance to recognize once more where we once stood, how we have moved, how we have changed, and to feel that all of this, too, is inevitable, because it is meaning we have chosen, meaning we have created with our own bodies.

We are like weights on a scale, and meaning works in the same way: with each of our movements, it slowly shifts, tilts.

Sometimes, in the same place with the same people, new memories overwrite the old. It would be better if I could keep both. At times, I remember like this: what kind of bag was I carrying that day? What was inside? Did someone need to wipe the table, and I happened to take out a wet wipe and hand it over? In my memory, I face myself and recount these small, trivial moments, rebuilding the life we shared. And when, at another time, someone else tells the same story, I realize that it is not only I who remember you, but that I have also been remembered by you all along. This is how we become woven together.

I am not special, and yet I remain in your memory. There is always a quiet understanding between us. Even things you would rather not go through again, because they are with us, are believed to become different. What is clearly our first time becomes, without intention, a new normal that belongs only to us.

As we focus on what we seek, we gradually become part of the blue together:

like a heart that has lost its shape, yet continues to boil and melt.