By the Window


Her mother was screaming, wailing, while running after us. I could see her through the rear window. She, the girl next to me, was shocked in silence, her face growing paler and paler while the wails of her mother grew louder and louder. Eventually, I stopped the car. Her mother was catching up and I asked ‘should we let this go/should we stop?’

I can’t remember what her response was.

Taking twists and turns on the road with some familiar faces along the way, what was I doing and where was I? Where was she? I don’t know. I just had to stop. So I did, pulled over, got out from the car, run to the nearest bush and threw up there.


On the back of a boarding pass is a poem written by my 18-year old self. He and I, we were both in awe of the city, crying to ourselves that we may never make anything as permanent or beautiful. No man may ever look at us as we have at these things yet, to be a piece of it, that tiny, inconsequential speck amid the sea of others, all the same should be enough to sit here in this tiny corner in a bookstore and know that whatever we may give back to those greater than us, we will still have made the world better than it would’ve been without us.


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