You try to tell one story but others ask to be told, so here we are and I am the passenger and he is the driver, and I am gazing out of the window, feeling a little sad how three hundred and sixty five days separate us from our wedding day, and in that time, many weddings have happened since, in that very room where we had breakfast this morning, and the weather that was so hot on that sunkissed day is now a half-committed rain, so after checking out, we run to the car and I watch the drizzle which can’t be bothered to rain and I think that this is life.
The holidays, the carefree, they are life, but the wet motorways, the coming back, the drizzle, the blur of the green beyond the grey, the haze of rain, that too is life and you cannot have one without the other, unless your life is one, long, forever playground, the further you walk, the further its meaning eludes you.
And every year we come back here, will make us more distant from that memory, that has happened, it is done, filed away and classified and where do memories go and how do we hold onto them so they can never leave us? Because our wedding is not there in the walls of this hotel where we were married, nor in the red carpet down the stairs, nor at the breakfast table, nor on the exact spot where we stood and made our vows, nor in the hotel room, nor in the photos, our memories are more in our hearts than in this place now.