All We Are is History

We spoke about astronomy.

We talked about philosophy and history and all of the topics my mind had been craving for months. It was a glass of lemonade on a sweltering summer day. In reality it was a brisk March afternoon and the sun had started setting behind the highrise buildings, reflecting off the glass windows and into my eyes.

We shared our desires for the future and anecdotes about our past, both equally uncertain. We were simply two pieces of the same puzzle, left out of the picture because our jagged tabs didn’t fit into any of the other pieces; and yet we came together so effortlessly, so naturally.

It was as if I was discovering a part of myself I had long since forgotten, that I had buried for fear of being betrayed by an alien reality in which I felt imprisoned. She made me feel whole again, like the version of myself I had envied for so long while unable to feel truly comfortable in my skin, pulled taut across my bones.

She spoke to me in ways that I had longed for, in a way that soothed my soul. Her eyes were bright and her smile was wide, and it was completely uncharted territory for me. We talked for hours that felt like minutes and it relieved me of pain that I had been harboring for millenia. She found a way into a heart that had been clinging to life and gave it a reason to keep fighting…

…and while we spoke about the stars and the human experience, I realized that all we are is history.


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