Odd moment when the bus stops in the middle of its route and rumbles to a halt and the conversations and the video playing out loud and the whoosh of passing traffic and the sun’s heat on your face are thrown into sharp relief and wow, this – this is why you live alone – to revel in quotidian moments like these where routines unexpectedly veer off track while you gaze unseeingly out of the bus window expecting to go from point A to B and nothing more; moments that mean nothing to the world or stock prices or headlines and are concealed in your memories not because you can’t reveal them, but because you have absolutely no need to share them and no one is interested, and are therefore purely private and your own. And if memories maketh the person, if you are the sum of your memories, these are the times you feel like a whole person, a person that is not part of an organisation or an ethnicity or a community or a world people make out to be so disappointing, a person not subject to the whims of an environment so beyond control, but a person just being.

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“Vlasta is opposed to all forms of extravagance. For her, sitting out in the garden at night just because you feel like it is an extravagance.” – The Joke, Milan Kundera

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