Memory meaning

He stood on the street corner in a daze, waiting for the light to change.

How long have I been walking? he wondered silently. His legs were beginning to seize up, and ache, as if in accordance with his empty stomach.

Yet stopping proved worse than walking; if he kept moving, it meant he wasn’t reminded of the hole in his stomach and the ache in his limbs. The backpack weighed him down.

I’ve carried heavier, he pondered. I’ve been hiking before.

He closed his eyes briefly, then countered his thought with an argument, quickly resolving his unspoken query.

But never while this tired.

He wasn’t the type to talk to himself; it wasn’t his thing. Nonetheless, he’d noticed every once in a while, certain issues cropped up that seemed to require an internal monologue.

His eyelids fluttered. He strove to stay focused and awake, even while standing. He’d read about “moments lasting forever” but this one was taking too damn long. And not in the good way.

An irritating beep caused him to stir.

“Green man!” squealed a little girl beside him, all dressed in pink, skipping forward with her parents.

Where do they find the energy?! Was I like that at that age? He plodded on sluggishly, lost in thought. If only I could remember.

It wasn’t like he couldn’t remember anything at all – he remembered what his boss told him yesterday, he could remember his card number, or the egg-yolk yellow of the old man’s vest. He remembered plenty.

Briefly he wondered whether there was some deeper meaning to him not being able to recollect memories from his childhood.

Nah. Who am I kidding – is there a deeper meaning to anything?

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