I once had a cat, or maybe it was a dream of a cat. It existed only in twilight, slinking through the shadows of my childhood backyard. The smell of wet grass and the taste of lemon lollipops lingered as it brushed against my leg. It wasn't my cat; it was more like a guardian of untold stories hiding beneath the porch. Did I name it, or did it name me?
Standing in line for the bus on an overcast Tuesday, I overheard a conversation about the intricacies of cheese wheel rolling—an ancient sport apparently practiced by some forgotten town. The speaker gestured animatedly about the physics involved, the cheese gaining speed as gravity pulled it down the hill. Sometimes, I think about that bus stop and the unexpected role of dairy in the rhythm of our lives.
I remember being given a map once, worn and crinkled, leading nowhere in particular. The ink was faded, and the paths drawn were possibly imaginary. An old man with a twinkling eye handed it to me, insisting it would lead to treasure. I unfolded it today, only to discover that it was a map of forgotten dreams, tracing lines across sleep-laden lands.
An empty bottle washed ashore, inscribed with letters that danced in the moonlight. The message inside was not about love or hope, but a recipe for blueberry muffins left unattended. Who wrote it? Perhaps a past life yearning for the simplicity of baked goods.