Moments of the past pass in a moment, as lifetime of memories. A picture of me in one spot of past moments scans quickly showing a joyful kid. Irrelevant now, just a memory of past that now is what was and not what if.
Nothing in time is cherished when present, because present is future goals. Past remains a powerful scent capturing a room of desired what if. This travel has an end unless past remains, where arriving to a destination reminds of times of when there was once. When what if of the past is always never arriving, a loss of past is cherished as a memory in present, and present takes a meaningful past tense that once was and now that will never be. Never in life that moment will repeat but recapturing it over and over searches for different scene.
How many times have I watched a movie hoping the ending to change? And moving forward with thoughts of past remains a bittersweet taste that drunks this tiny human in vastness of unknown past universe. Yes wars, even in that, sweet memories, unknowns to others, recall you back to a moment. A moment not in time or age, smell maybe, character of something possibly, something vague but clear. What it is that I search when I look into past? How I want to feel the scent of then? Perhaps. And thinking goes further in time.
At nights our fingers were busy chopping grass in boulevard across apartments, to do what? Nothing. Passing time and talking, thinking, talking of thinking of dreaming. Simple. At noon passing buildings that each advertised its aroma of lunch. Now remains only spots in time. Why those spots and not others? Why is it important to remember that I bought dried sour cherry in the way back home from school? No significance. Why do I remember only one class, one time in that class, sitting second row in third grade? Mrs. Abri. Nothing happened. Where is the next day? Or what happened the day after I bought my favorite pen? Pointless. Teacher called: ”Molatefi”…and I stood up. That wasn’t my name. Everyone laughed. We both stood up. I just wanted to know how to spell her last name. I stood up to look at teacher’s book. Who is Molatefi? Never knew, but the name never left my mind.
It’s the scent. It’s the character of the scent of a place in time that once was. “Your friend likes me?” Mojgan asked me. Behrouz told me to tell her whether she wants to be friends with him. Who is Behrouz, Mojgan, Ali, Ramin, Babak? Spot between reality and desired past challenges my memories. Happened many times in the past where I imagined something and made it real. Some I still believe today. In Istanbul a rooftop room housed a suffering kid who desperately needed my help. I had stared at that window for hours waiting for a sign. I wanted the kid to communicate with me. It was a small storage and not a room!
It’s the feeling of a scent. 35 steps to buy ice cream, 358 steps to school, 124 steps to Sina’s building. “You are moving?” Sina asked me sadly. We had bought a new place. I knew I would miss something. Maybe last final exam where the city gardeners watering the grass in boulevard. Sunny, cool breeze with birds singing happily to their mate. Nervous steps that moved closer to final exam. Joy of the end, beginning of summer.
We moved. Only saw Sina three more times. It’s the character of the scent of a place in time that once was.
A space in discontinued series of broken films. Majestic scenes urging nostalgic awakening. In that space of time we are still living a life that once was without any desire of what if, and that’s not enough.
Moments of the past pass in a moment, as lifetime of memories. A grandfather picks his grandchild and hugs her tight in a hope that the kid saves the spot and returns again and again, forever in living memory of present.
