Echoes of Time

Isn't it strange how we find ourselves recounting an old story, like flowers pressed in a forgotten book? Tangles of emotions become the ink, spilling out words too fragile to bear sometimes.

I've often wondered about the folks who met briefly, just two ships in the night. Can they hear each other’s whispers? Or are they only figures blurred at the edges, dissolved in the margins of memories yet untold? Well, how do you explain the deep grumble of fate as a vague, distant clap of thunder?

Speaking of thunder, I was told, once, that time traveled like a ball tossed across a park—sometimes languidly rolling, and at other times back-spinning into corners forgotten. But what of the time that simply vanishes? Like that cheese sandwich last Tuesday that I could have sworn I packed…A taste lingering at the back, like cherry blossoms?

What does it mean, really, to lose track of the laughter echoing back to our past selves? Are we doling out snippets of fate, or carefully selecting which threads to pluck from life's scarf?