was that what it was like? am I imagining, projecting life unto art, instead of the other way around, where art imitates life? it could possibly explain, provide reasons, purpose, causality, and reminiscing resurfaces a turning point, a rather simple event, just showing up 15 minutes late, and just like sliding doors, or maybe not so quaintly put, but that i think now that single event, and its cascading effect, and i wonder why, and I stop to think, such a little thing, if i had arrived in my car, maybe if i caught a stoplight, or a green light, or just remembered, or if there wasn't the laughter, or if they waited, of if i realized how insignificant it actually is, yet it still stings, to this day it stings, to create, to foster, and to be left behind, yet at the same time to have continued the course, while the very thing that first cracked the glass has long been forgotten, i can only assume, and probably expect. back to the beginning though, to trying to fit my life into the fictional stories, pictures, and images of someone else's imagination, because the imagination is more beautiful than the memory