Sometimes,I remember things that do not exist.Soft echoes in the corridors of my mind,shadows of a life unlived,footsteps on a path that never was.
All this time,they were hidden in my conscious mind,woven between waking and dream,whispering, I was here.
And I believed.Believed in their warmth, their weight,the way they shaped me like river stones,the way they curled into the folds of thought,quiet, persistent, real.
Yet still, I remember.
I remember a sound.I remember a feeling.I remember a sensation.I remember a way of doing things.I remember a message that I do not remember,one I have slept out of my mind.
I remember something wonderful that I cannot hold,a way that disappeared,a truth that dissolved before I could touch it.I remember as if I have always known,but it has slipped away,washed from the shores of my reality.
I remember a shape, a color—What is that?I try to remember, but it fades,like mist in the morning light,like a name on the tip of my tongue,just beyond reach.
And then—the veil thins,the world sharpens,and I see—they are not here.They never were.
A memory without a past.A feeling without a name.
And yet, they linger—drifting in the space between knowing and forgetting,dissolving like breath against glass.
I remember,and then I realize—it does not exist.
And yet—somewhere, somehow,it still does.
Katiana
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