Mountain Drive

You look back through your words and find memories untold. You can’t recall why you did not write them down, but they still warm you deep down. 

In Chang Mai with your roommate you two rented two mopeds, once again, and instead of dodging cows you dogged bikes and cars as you two made your way to a park at the base of the mountain. Driving up it felt like a never ending climb. Stopping for a scenic view you two made your way down a trail to a small river with a natural pool where locals were sliding off and splashing with childlike sensation. Following their role you two join, only hitting one knee on a rock on the way down. You meet an American, but that’s all you remember. Photos are exchanged amongst broken english. Luckily Smiles are universal. 

At the top of a mountain you relive the never ending staircase of Mario as you make your way to a temple. Foreigners are the only ones who have to pay. The tile is warm yet cool. Russians posing for photographs. The Paya making you squint from it’s brightness. 

You two race down the mountain, butts frankly clenched. The sight of a man over turned, blood running down his face as others help him slows you two down.

In the city you take a wrong turn and wait for your roommate, leaving seconds before she passed, you find out later. 

Dinner is pleasant but you can’t remember much more. Maybe you drank some beers alone at a bar, wouldn’t be surprising.

You wonder if sometimes memories are best kept to yourself, but what is it if it is not shared, a passing thought? Are you created in words and language as much as your memories? 

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