2025.07.12
Jane was standing at the crossroads of forgetting and remembering, where through the open door, the face was reforms like dissolution and reform. His job was not to record or disclose, but rather to be attracted to the shining moments – that foggy door where identities and memories were linked himself.
People did not seek direct gene. They were accidentally wandering in her presence-an old picture, a name half remembered, or a feeling of a scent in which they couldn’t keep. He greeted them quietly, his face was a changing mirror of all that he lost. In the features of his blurredness, he reflected someone that he once loved, or perhaps someone who feared to be.
Its sanctity was not a place but a state-at the end of the twentieth, the tons of light were gently shaking with colorful, remote laughter, open windows and mid-fall of autumn leaves. The more they looked at Jane, the more their assurance was revealed. Was she a mother from a dream? The child who never had them? Or did he give up version of himself?
And just before they turned – I resigned from Anjan – Jane did not respond, not an answer but a warm. A quiet understanding. Permission to stay in the middle.
Jane, the doorstep keeper, was never on the stories he had breastfeed. He just opened the veil, blurred the edges, and allows each visitor to write himself again – where the explanation fails.