I feel as if there is more that I should remember. In lockdown time is accelerating, it is slowing down, it is oozing and crashing against us in waves. But it’s not lockdown that has given me this feeling. It is my own distance when I should be most present. When I wish to be. I have felt this before—maybe around two years ago now, where I worried I was always catching up. Always a little ahead or behind. And then afterwards wondering, could I have been more in that moment? How could I have been? An earnest question. Some of this is the result of a kind of anxiety, a sensitivity, a natural discomfort trailing behind the parts of me that rush ahead. Some of it is not natural, only made. But perhaps, also, it isn’t that there is more that I should remember—because I remember every detail—but only that I’d like to remember it in a different way. As if I was there. More there. Not beside it. Not next to, or near it. In it (in myself). 

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