The Kaleidoscope

It has been a month and a half since I flew out of Europe. My residence permit expires tomorrow. Perhaps I will never go back again. I thought when I returned that I had a bundle of stories to narrate. But I now realize that my bundle had been tied carelessly. I cannot find half of my stories; my anecdotes are neither with tails nor heads. Cities become stretches of streets and colours that run into each other and cannot be told apart. I wish in vain that I had paid more attention, had watched the fading murals on the church walls more closely; had lingered a bit longer in front of the street musician so that his music would be with me when I walk in a different city with different rhythms. I wish I had swirled the wine in my mouth for a minute more so its taste would have soaked into me and lingered. Yet there are bits and pieces that I have saved.