JANUS
Time doesn’t exist in dreams.
Time is an ocean only expert sailors can navigate.
Many crash under its wave.
Rattling moments, like dead leaves, scattered by the wind.
Looking back — not always real, not always fixed.
Looking ahead — dilated, repetitive.
Past and Future. All around, nothing but a sordid hollow sound, a deaf dark void.
Our life, an overarching story made by fragments of small stories, and inside these, smaller stories still, that in turn are woven together by infinitely small moments.
We are made of all these dots in time, in a continuous flow, where the shape and line of these memories change, fade and reappear in a different form, under a different light.
What if we are simply made up of our memories?
Then time would be space.
And as we move through it, our being is made, a thread knit by moments.
Fragments, whose reflections echo and resonate in others.
Because what are stories, if not lines that come from the stretch of a dot in time. They morph, they fade, and yet in a moment, they are gone.
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