5. An Undetermined Amount of Seconds.

They’re supposed to be unexpected, the special moments, but I try to make them happen.

I set the scene, try to manufacture feelings, and I don’t know why I’ve ever thought it was possible. I just missed them, I guess.

I missed feeling that specific something, that essence of what makes a moment different from the ones before and after — that lightness of mind — so I’d do my best to create it for myself. It was a craving. I was starving for something that wasn’t quite so empty, something that would pull the pit out of my stomach, even for just a second.

I picked the songs I wanted for the soundtracks to my sunsets, my bus rides, my fall and winter and summer and spring walks. I played them at the exact moment chosen to be special, over and over — my moments — so that in listening later I would be brought back, a sort of manufactured Deja-Vu. And I would stand and stand and stand and wait for it to mean something, for it to hit me and send me out of my body for a time. For an undetermined amount of seconds, as far as I could stretch it.

And sometimes it worked, but mostly it didn’t. I listened to a George Ezra song over and over on a tour bus in Israel. Hours and hours of the same melody, the same clear, deep voice. But when I listen to that song now it still means nothing, I’m not taken back. I’m not sure if I’d want to be anyways.

I’ve noticed lately that I’ve been forcing less things to happen. I’ve been letting, I’ve been relaxed and calm and listening to my brain, respecting it and following it. Trusting it, rather than pushing and whipping it side to side, screaming and begging. My brain and I have been exchanging glances across a room, nodding and executing smoothly and calmly, in synchrony. And my god, it has felt good. I can’t remember the last time breathing was this effortless, talking was this fluid.

And even though my feet were sore and the words weren’t coming as easily today, I walked a bit further, away from the crowds and to the end of a walkway, a dingy narrow platform on the side of a restaurant on Pier 66. There were parts of the swirling white mass of cloud that encouraged the sun to touch the water, in spots, rippling softly as if to politely say “that’s enough”. The sun hung at above eye level and small mountains reached upward in the distance, behind lazy layers of clouds, beckoning. And I stayed there alone until I was ready to step away, a pumpkin spice latte in one hand, fruit juice in the other, and I didn’t take a single picture because remembering wasn’t the point. I was there, inside the snowglobe of that moment, oblivious and immersed. I had let it happen to me, followed without resisting rather than sweating and hammering and chiseling something that was never meant to be there in the first place.

I can’t select a moment to be memorable, and I hope to never have that curse.So it lasted as long as it possibly could, and no longer than it should have.