When you are in that moment it surrounds you with a clear brilliance,
A clarity that’s so enriched with detail you could never remember it perfectly,
But it’s so bright that you don’t believe that you could ever forget it.
In that moment you can believe that you’re immortal, that it’s infinite-
Your brain can’t even contemplate the moving present, so you accept every moment with singularity.
The breath you take in that second feels like the only one you’ve ever known-
The thought that lingers in your mind feels like the first moment of real consciousness
The real you, the self that comes closest to the truth slips through your fingers like sand with each tick.

As you read this the first lines have already become the past but for one glorious moment as your eyes follow this train of thought we are together in two occurring parallel realities; the present moment in which I write these words, and the time that much later after publishing you are seeing this. Both are the present for each of us, but yet also the past and the future too.

But as much as you the reader, are in your present, my own words have become the echo of a past me, but when I wrote them the words were fresh.
Writing can ultimately only be a reflection of the past, because for you to be reading something, it must have already been written.
However words unlike memories, can’t fade, or slip away- unless we lose them-
When we hold literature close to our chests we encapsulate a microcosmic infinity of present that we can dip in and out of as we please.

Each breath you take is propelling you forward with the present into a horizon of future, but these words stay behind, shining with the clear brilliance of memories until you can no longer see them, and still they speak.