Proust had an elephant's memory.

The time has come when real becomes blurred.  It is when you forget street names, when you can’t smell the bakery shop down the alley, when you can’t remember which bus takes you where, when you are afraid that you may never go back to this past that is also your life.

It is when there’s no one there to remember you, when migration and new jobs take away your friends, You, any clue of me.  The old apartment is already occupied by new persons who ignore how much you loved the carpet there, how the stove got that stain (and they might never know that is impossible to fry tacos in an electric stove) and how much I loved to see you asleep.

And anyways there’s still this contradiction.  In the late hours of the day, in the first hours of a Sunday I wonder how are you doing, I try to “feel” you and know if you are fine but I know that I’ve missed hard moments, when you probably needed someone, although… I don’t want to know how better you are doing without me and how less you miss me every day.

I still remember these dreams where I could perfectly see one house after the other through the bus window in my way to work, the trees in the street walking towards your work place, the garlic smell in the Russian Hall, the cold in your nose when you came back home, my Proustian memories are gone.

I hope this blog reaches you well, even when WHEN is the question that internet might never answer.