Every memory burns. Be it of happiness or sorrow. Time is the canvas of those memories. Life lived is its paintbrush. Days pass, time crosses boundaries. And on the other side, memories accumulate. A home, a balcony, a veranda. A sun-baked roof, a damp attic. Like accumulated dust, attachment grows to these things. Going somewhere else, one feels the pull. One remembers the living room, the scattered bed and pillows, the half-open window. Perhaps even then, water is dripping softly from the tap.

One day, one has to leave. People leave.

Yet, attachment cannot be abandoned. Attachment does not abandon.

This is a strange, complex, and powerful glue; its name is attachment (Maya).