When the contours of our last rapid movement settled into my subconscious, I suddenly realised I have been lying to myself all this while. I tried to trace back my steps, like what we learned in school whenever something is lost, but I never found that last piece of puzzle. I still do not understand what happened. I pulled out strands of glittery memories, but everything is fudged, everything is broken, everything is entwined within everything, and it will never go back to being the same again. How did I come so far? I tried holding on to the umbilical cord of our last valid existence, I nestled myself comfortably within the warm safety of ignorance, sucking greedily at the emotional opium. It’s all binary, he’d say. And I’d snigger. I like grey areas, they remind me of possibilities and excitement and indefiniteness and mischief. Ambiguity is like a half written thriller, I climax only at cliffhangers. And then all that is left is silence, and our remarkable ability of forgetting and moving on. But perhaps they are all meant to be like that. Like cheeseburger on a drive through. Like autumn leaves on the roof. Like 3am conversations. Like sex with a stranger. Like love at first sight. They are fleeting. And mythical. And we’re doomed. I can see myself like a mirror, the clarity is cold yet reassuring. And I might even learn the rules of one and zero.