It hasn’t been a conscious decision but I have led a life of discrete moments that are grasped from here and there, like a magpie, and chunked together side by side in some semblance of a continuum. I live from moment to moment; each new and whole, each offering a blank slate. That is why I am unable to hold a grudge; it seems silly to remain angry or annoyed about incidents that happened so many moments ago. Often my leaky memory finds it difficult to retain the cause of an argument, and even if it does, the earlier flammability is lost.
Even uncalled for convolutions in the course of life that threatens to throw me off the edge are relegated to being mere mishaps in retrospect. They don’t fade from memory, but past hurt is automatically and effortlessly eradicated in the onrush of the new moments that seduces with so many possibilities. It is perfectly normal for me to argue in the morning, remain annoyed for an hour or two, and backslap the person by afternoon, wondering at their bemusement. Flitting from moment to moment creates incoordination with people who mothballs their past, but that is a price I am willing to pay, along with the slightly raised chances of repeating the same mistakes.
The only thing that seems to quietly permeate underneath all the unlinked moments of my life is love. Love is always there, unobtrusive and undemanding, from one moment to the next and then the next, and so on. It creates a sense of permanence no matter how disheveled life becomes. It is like a really tall lighthouse that always looms in the horizon, the sight of which I can take comfort in wherever I sail out to. We don’t choose the life we are born into, or the people we call family. I have been very lucky on that aspect. Yet I long for that something of my own; the glue that invisibly holds my moments together, the lighthouse I can sail back to any time, the feeling of coming home.
Dialect of Heart 