Blueberry Night

I get home and open my fridge only to find some blueberries. They don’t look particularly fresh. I take one in my fingers and roll it to examine its freshness. I notice that the blueberry has an oval shape. The room is dead silent. The kind of silence that feels like the most violent sound of all. I look out the window and see fogs rolling over the bay. The Bay Bridge is now half covered by the fogs and there is constant reflection of lights bouncing back from its vertical rails. While staring at the bridge, I place the blueberry in my mouth and use my tongue to push it up against the top of my mouth. The blueberry gets crushed. I taste its sweetness. I’ve never enjoyed the taste of blueberry so attentively.

This whole experience seems odd. When I contrast it with other things that could potentially occupy my mind, it surprisingly stands higher. I think I have been spending too much time surfing my imaginations lately. Dreams and imaginations are extensions of real life. Notions like future and love get intimately conceived in the hallways of dreams long before any reality glimmers. Soon after, expectations get set involuntarily as a reflection of those dreams. This life-like amusement becomes humorless when the expectations refuse to meet reality.

We’re consistently taught to dismiss the past and live with our hopes and imaginations. I’ve always had mixed feelings about that counsel. I believe the business of life is the acquisition of memories. Simple memories. I may never remember what I had imagined a decade ago, but oddly, I will always remember the blueberry night.

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