it’s still the early evening
i just passed by my old apartment, while biking to Berkeley. it’s two years now since the last time i had to kick that rusty jammed metallic door with my feet to get in, and the last time i climbed those staircases and tried to avoid smelling all that pod in the air that floated all over the condo building. yet i have so many good memories about this place. i stop pedaling and rest my bike for a bit in front of the door. i realize i actually don’t really have negative memories of any place i’ve ever been too. and this old apartment in the middle of freaking nowhere is no exception. yes, i definitely did have good times here. well, it was an exciting period of time for me, that’s for sure. hm, perhaps, it is the echo of the feelings i had during that period of time that come back to my mind when i look to this rusty door. who knows, perhaps i cannot really dissociate place and time in my memories after all. in any case, i feel happiness when i think of this space i inhabited in there, behind that white wall that i cannot cross anymore. i close my eyes and think of the kitchen at the other side of that wall, of the walls in my office room, the wall mirrors in the bedroom, the carpet in the living room. as i walk by my old apartment entrance now, two years later, right through the very same tiles that i steped by for 365 days, i wonder who lives in there at this momment, who took over and replaced me. who cooks in my old kitchen, who sees their reflection in my wall mirrors, who stored books in my old office, and who walks or plays in my old carpet. i wonder if the sense that apartment the same way i did, or if they ever wonder who lived there before them. perhaps they do, they sometimes ask themselves how i am, or who i am? do they ever think of me? i take my bike back, i say “good bye” to my old apartment, and resume pedaling.
later this night
i’m exhausted today, but i finally made it home. i take my keys and open the door with that repetitive wrist movement that only two years of daily routine provides. i get in, and walk towards my mailbox. i open it, and immediately take out all of the publicity that i don’t care about (and that should be forbidden to drop in my mailbox) and through it away to the recycle bin. i rescue a few letters, though. a couple of them are for me. i start going up the stairs, and look to the other letters that were not sent to me. three belong to somebody called “Sophie”, and the others to “Tanja”. i keep climbing the stairs, while i wonder how are they, and who are they.