It’s the little things that always seem to vanish. Like grains of sand slipping through fingers, only to be found later, tangled in hair or caught within the folds of forgotten pockets. They come, they go, they come again, like the tide, or the sound of a clock with no intention of pausing.
You pick up a book, and it feels heavier each time you lift it, despite its unchanged number of pages, always looping back to the same sentences, the same stories. The weight is not in the words but in their tangible presence, a paradox of permanence in something so easily shifted.
We hold onto things, thinking they are fixed, like the walls of our homes, but they shift too, with every whisper of wind, every crack in the plaster that tells tales of time. Over and over, the cycle, a broken record, hardly broken at all.
Consider this: Do you really own a moment, or does it only belong to you until the next one arrives? And when that next moment comes, will you recognize the lingering déjà vu of a now familiar dance?