Memory Of Images

PART 1 — ARRIVAL

Travelling in a taxi through London. Like watching TV with the sound turned down.

Couples fighting outside the window. Trains passing. I arrive at a flat in North London — shifted here one month ago. The mundane life goes on.

Projector lights. London sprints.

One day I find a journal in an unbothered corner of the drawer.

Wrote by a guy named Mikel.

Sounds so familiar.

He writes —

Noise cancelling headphones.

Analog watch — stopped at nine.

Bonusan Magnesium forte plus.

Branded water, half finished.

A Dolby CD, no label.

Oil pastels, barely used.

Collecting is the only truth.

People forget. But objects hold the memory. The smell. The origin. The pathway.

Coffee mug.

Tom Ford pocket squares.

Nike ball.

Electric toothbrush.

Broken compass — still points somewhere.

A hotel room key, city unknown.

Half-written letter, no addressee.

A cinema ticket stub — last row, seat G7.

I collect memories and objects.

It will never leave this place.

He writes further —

Emirates.

Holloway Road.

Ken Friar Bridge.

The Drayton Park.

Sports is the only thing that bonds us.

Colour seems bright at Emirates.

I read this. I live near the Emirates.

Something in those lines haunts me for two weeks.

Then one day, at the back of my cupboard — binoculars. Gifted by some old, blurry friend. The origin uncertain, the object real.

It clicks.

Objects as memories.

I say — “He’s right.”

I take the binoculars to the window.

Point them at the Emirates.

Colour breathes bright there. Even from here. Even through glass.

I set the binoculars down. Turn back to the journal.

Then one evening I go for a walk near the Emirates.

Days before any match — but the bonding is already felt. Something in the streets around it, in the people moving through Holloway Road, in the permanence of the stadium against the grey London sky.

Colours seem real.

Ken Friar Bridge.

Skateboards laughing.

PART 2 — HARMONY

As life goes on, I lapse through time.

Same mundane. Same moon.

I start taking walks near the Emirates. Start collecting small things — quietly, without deciding to.

After a week or two, one fine night, I open the journal again.

Just curious.

I see a name written with warmth.

Harmony.

He writes —

London Stadium.

Boxing Day, 2022.

Away stand.

Comeback celebration.

She is sitting beside me. As the goal goes in, her hand finds my shoulder. I smile. We celebrate.

We exchange names.

Harmony.

And when I told her mine — Mikel — she tilted her head with a smile.

“What are the odds.”

She invited me to a karaoke pub near the stadium.

Moving lights. Smoked up mic.

We sang for hours. Our music taste converges — she is more into Radiohead.

Resonance.

After some time she tells me about her dog. Ten days ago. This is the first time in a long while she feels something other than apathy.

A music whispers in my head.

Harmony, little stranger.

Find your way through the fog.

Time-lapsed. We got close. Dating proceeds with that.

I turn the page.

A photograph.

Mikel and Harmony outside London Stadium.

Boxing Day, 2022.

I see her radiating smile.

The picture is perfect now.

Multicoloured frame.

Dreams enter planes.

PART 3 — FIGHT

He writes —

12th March 2023

The objects in my room keep changing their axis now.

Why?

And she is telling me to let it go?

I won’t. I snap.

A big fight.

She leaves.

Taxis stop.

CCTV timelapse.

He writes further —

13th March 2023

Blinding the shades and keeping the plate, you little soul keeper,

You wall breaker, chain maker, rest your bones.

Playing the fields that are printed in green, you matchmaker, you glass breaker, grim reaper.

Let it go.

Orange clockwork mind.

Now feeling tired.

Last chance to evacuate earth before it is recycled.

That Heaven’s Gate speech still gets to me.

It’s funny how the influence works.

“It requires that you leave behind everything of human ways, human behavior, human ignorance, human misinformation.

I shut the journal.

I sleep with the lights on.

Next day I wake up. Go to the office. As I grab the coffee mug, distortion sets in. My mind goes wild.

Surface tension delays.

Soul keeper inside my mind now.

Let it go. Let it go.

The chants come through the fractured lights as I eat dinner alone.

I open the journal again.

He writes —

Fractured Lights.

Killing Time.

Severed Self.

Stabilise.

I shut the journal.

The melatonin smile of Harmony revolves in my head. I close my eyes and breathe.

The next entry —

14th March 2023

Arsenal vs Sporting CP on 16th March.

Maybe the objects have memory. But no feelings.

Strangers once again.

He continues —

Time of almost rain.

Feelings come from warmth and I pushed the sun away.

Dolby CD.

I should make a playlist to apologise.

She comes home by 7PM.

15th March 2023

After three days of silence, I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to settle this. I’ll apologise to her.

We will grow old together.

Blank pages. No more words.

PART 4 — BEAUTIFUL INFINITY

Next day I get up. Ask the friendly neighbour about Mikel.

He says —

“Mikel passed away. I remember we were discussing Arsenal vs Sporting CP Europa League quarter finals — and then the next day he suffered a cardiac arrest at his office.”

I am shocked.

Sun goes black.

I run back to my apartment.

The words come to my mind.

Mind revolves in time.

Harmony, little stranger.

Find your way through the fog.

It keeps repeating in my head as the city lights go dark. Trains pull to the last station. Apartments sunlight breathing.

Time passes by.

Angled sunshine goes on and off. City breathes the rain.

To cope, I fall into routine — everything on time, everything in order, everything done with quiet sadness underneath.

Two months go by.

Moonlight travels. City runs. Routine continues.

In my dreams I always wake at the door of her apartment, hand reaching to knock. Then it goes black. Colours fade out.

As I continue with my routine, the imagined voice of Harmony keeps dancing in my head — in random moments, uninvited.

“I came here searching for something.”

As traffic lights rotate. Orders get delivered. Cellphones vibrate.

“Did I dream you or are you dreaming me now?”

City sleeps.

Only apathy, cod philosophy.

The watch still shows 9 o’clock on the side table.

Saturday.

Morning.

Silhouette of the new day — just at the start.

Arsenal vs Sunderland. The Emirates is roaring.

For the first time in two months I feel something other than apathy.

I leave the stadium. A soft inelastic collision with a woman. Her phone falls to the floor.

I pick it up. Look up at her face.

The resemblance.

I apologise.

She says — Have we met? — with a tilted smile.

The colours in my mind breathe wide. The HD frame opens.

The magic of Emirates.

Two months go by. Trains oscillating. Sun goes down and up.

7th April 2026.

Hour of almost rain.

Where night becomes the day.

My apartment.

She sets the plate in the sink.

I drive the CD into the player.

The music plays.

The photograph zooms in — hanging on the wall.

Mikel and I standing together in front of Highbury Stadium Square.

Beneath it:

Highbury, 2010.