Sun-Bleached Anamnesis

The memory returns not as a whole, but in sun-bleached fragments. There is the rough, warm texture of a rocky ledge beneath my hands, a foreground too close to truly see. My own form is a blur of blonde hair and sunglasses, a ghost overlooking the scene. Beyond me, the world is sharp and alive—a stone terrace where phantom figures in swimwear laugh around a bar, pigeons taking flight from a white-washed roof. The sea holds the most vivid color, a turquoise dream shifting to deep sapphire, and on its glittering surface, tiny swimmers are suspended in a perfect, endless afternoon. I am here, and not here, the silent observer of a day that may have only ever happened in a dream.