What is it you can call your own?

The damp spreads all around. And it feels cold at nights.

It rains intermittently, and the sky clouds suddenly and rains a few, brief showers. As you pedal down the city streets, you feel the soft heat melting down your shoulders while the logic of industrial domestication rules supreme around you, in banners, streamers, and screamers.

The sun has changed and it's now soft and warm. Summer and the rainy season's almost over, and this transitory weather, and especially this soft warmth of the sun, brings back something.

Things called memories. The comforting dreams of childhood. Your endless and futile attempts to replicate that which now seems a too-real-to-be-true dreamy life in your dreams.

And the weather works on your memories.

Memories of the days you swam in rivers, slept in the middle of green rice fields, and fished for long afternoons that never seemed to end. Memories of friends who've changed beyond recognition by now, memories of the beautiful moments you had in isolation when you were capable of playing and being content with coins, stamps, butterflies and other strange collectibles; memories of birds who used to wake you up in the middle of the night.

These days and nights keep flowing in and out till the point you realise that you hadn't been keeping track of the flow of memories. The proverbial memory of yours, dear fish— who discovers afresh the wonder of the old world after every twenty seconds— is something that you've lost forever. Don't regret. The world is still spinning around you, and you've got all your time to make sense of it.

But left without a memory, what is it you can call your own?