I have a habit of holding onto things. Be it a trinket from my pristine toys, or a fresh yet old cardigan that, doesn’t really matter, still fits me or not.
I go to streets and often stare blankly at the spots that once had my impression there with other people.
I take screenshots of (sometimes sparkling, sometimes saddening) quotes on life and like to keep them with me. Not that I’ve the idea of reposting them, but to again feel the energy they radiate.
I hold onto books, pages, their words. Hence, I keep folding the corners of their pages and underlining sentences whenever I find something beautiful.
Sadly, I hold onto people as well. Everytime I meet someone new, my conscience books them a different place into my cerebral remembrance and sometimes in my heart; In all those untraveled paths for everyone to walk all over and leave their footprints forever.
As people walk by, I know they’re ‘Travellers’. Just as those streets would transform into new ways and those screenshots would disappear into all the other images and the books, too, would perish being old and untouched for years; People would also travel from one person to another. For their legs have wheels and their hearts have wings, that always wander to tell me about how precarious and ephemeral life could be.