You captivated me from afar, and I didn't even think about approaching, simply enjoying the serendipity of coming across your gaze. Before that encounter, I prided myself on controlling the distance between things I could have and those that overwhelmed me. I contemplated slender legs that halted at parapets and revelled in the abstract everyday life of the streets. A scattered rain began to fall, and I loved the beginning of rain, finding the herd mentality of people fleeing from it quite amusing.
Everyone was in a hurry, seeking shelter or an umbrella, and in the end, it was just water-wetting bare heads. It was right there that you brought down invisible walls, and the thousand moments prior to our meeting, from streetlight to streetlight, began to stroll through my memory. I felt humble gratitude that you were there at that moment, with me, yet without me. You smiled without surprise, seeking my gaze without my noticing as if beyond enjoying this circus, you were also looking for another crazy person who had come to the park alone to get wet and mock the others, those who obsess over doing what everyone does in their calendar of banal and useless things.
Between you and me, a strange sense of sudden magic accompanied by the imprint of feeling controlled by "destiny," a word I hate because of how foolish it is to believe in destiny. If anything, we owe a kind of gratitude to our memory, the will to move, and the sum of circumstances, but I don't think it was written that I would be there with you, yet without you. Truth be told, I was only there in search of the translucent transparency of nothingness, the woman who was also running in fear, seeking to avoid the irreparable consequence of living.
Oh that rain, if it hadn't chosen to fall, I wouldn't be here, believing that this was a miserable divine plan to put me face to face with this picture of your face. I would spend a thousand hours trying to describe everything that was born from you in that second, even though we weren't there, and we didn't want to meet. We only aspired to the freedom of fleeing from all decisions, being disruptive and magical, and saving ourselves from sanity. Would I cease to be a bohemian if I freed myself from poetry? If justice were to be on my side for a moment? Or is all of this just a manifestation of an idea that exists only within me? Have I found my Annie Hall, my Mona Lisa?