Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset,
There must be one (which, I am not sure)
That I by now have walked for the last time
– Limits, Jorge Luis Borges
It turned out, the stories you told yourself spanned several lives, the tram that you would take to the terminus, the fried fish you were going to eat by the bayside, on a sunny day, the stairs you were saving for a more inspired time. You haven’t seen the museum exhibits, you didn’t read your meditations under the gnarled baobab, you didn’t say hi to the stranger working behind the counter at the fresh fruit stand.
And those ice cream flavors that made your mouth water – still just pastel hues and the sweet smell of butter, nothing more. There, you were going to take your daughter on a clear day, there, you were going to take the ferry on a free day, ultimately an imaginary day free of the crush of life’s minutiae, a day that does not exist.
It has crowded you, it has covered the stuff of life, the underlying strata on which kids and babies joy. For you, the bell rang sooner, the tram arrived and has already left.