I took the bus home on Friday. I usually sit all the way at the back of the GO bus since people don’t tend to go there unless the bus is getting full. I get carsick when I read in cars, but not on busses and trains. This makes commuting in this manner palatable.

I continued reading “Bombay Stories” by Saadat Hasan Manto. To take a break from the reading, I looked out the window for a while. I sensed a glisten on the snow beyond what the lights of the street lights would make. A full moon was out that night, that too with a glow. My eyes were fixated.

This moment, this fixation is fascinating. When you are in a moving vehicle with the moon to the side, you can see all the other things passing by but the moon. The moon was following me home with everything beneath it being left to the wayside.

And with that realization I felt an intense love for the world.


it might be unfair to say
that all that remains of the past
is memory.

unless you argue that
scars are a type of memory.
that the painting you painted
isn’t simply a painting, it
is also a memory
of you having painted it.

nearly everything then
is memory.

without these memories,
how do we even know
if the past ever happened?

what if every moment
is the start of time
with placed memories?