Old Times.

It has effectively been two or three years since the last time I’ve decided to ruminate over the minute details of my life– and the truth is that I no longer have the same drive to write as I used to. Perhaps I’m a little less self-obsessed.

I once wondered, aloud on the internet, how people can continue to create beautiful things, because I only manage to birth onto the world a gift of mild literacy when the notches on my soul can no longer hold the anguish I let sit. A friend responded, “the ability to create even when uninspired separates the professional from the hobbyist. That’s why I keep myself sad 7/11.” It dawned on me then that the sadness and the emptiness I feel, as an individual, is not a wholly unique or special experience. The truth of the matter is that everyone feels the same sadness, some people just allow beautiful things to arise from the murky waters of their humanity.

My frustrations today are mainly that I am much less creative than I have ever been, and I struggle with the mutual exclusivity of happiness and grayness, sadness and art. Maybe I’ll figure something out, maybe I won’t. Until then, however.

I guess I’ll indulge in a little memory-writing.


Memories # 3

I haven’t thought about you in quite a while; but sometimes little things remind me of you and it’s rather face palm inducing.

The memories aren’t as clear as they used to be, but I remember the heat of the sun beating down upon both of our faces pretty clearly. It started with a text from when I was out with my classmates— I believe it was the last day of our junior year and we were celebrating. “I’d really like to talk to you.” or something like it, you messaged me, and I shook my fist at the sky as my heart attempted to detach itself from my stomach. I remember sitting by the church in the subdivision where you live, my fingers trying to find comfort in their mirror image while you sat about a foot away from me. We conversed about the usual things, and I don’t quite recall the details anymore; but I think that was you inevitably telling me that you didn’t feel the same way. I suppose the mind of a teenage girl is so capable of warping reality to its liking.

It’s currently 1.30AM on a Sunday, and I have this entrance test coming up and a million and a half things on my plate— but it was this manga (since I know you like that kind of stuff) that got me thinking about you. Sometimes I feel like falling for you all over again, especially when I remember hushed conversations that probably meant more to me than they did to you. Sometimes, I see your face and my heart leaps out of force of habit. I’ve always been fond of the way your name rolls off my tongue, but I’m content realizing that you are perfect, but not my perfect. Someone else’s perfect, the corner piece to their puzzle.

Old Flames

July’s proving to be the month of old flames–no matter how weird the story behind it.

I can’t quite bring myself to be poetic about it at two in the morning, a tad tipsy and a bushel confused. I once knew, but not really knew this boy; my friends and I code named him “strawberry” for reasons I’m still unsure of. As relationships of the strange nature that ours was went, and at the tender age of much too young; it was really one of my more interesting early experiments HAHAHA. So why write about this boy?

Well, by some stroke of luck, I saw him during a truancy session at a college I didn’t even go to– the thought? hot damn. It was just a few moments, but in those few I found myself fighting the urge to slap myself across the face, remembering the dumb shit a much younger me did. Life goes on, and we let sleeping giants lay.

But I guess now is the time to introduce dsj, yet another old (one-sided) flame that I had the opportunity to reconnect with. I remember the day I met him so clearly, down to what I was wearing. Not because I held on to that moment, but because the people around me never let me forget it. So into my classmate’s house I strolled, wearing the ugliest sweater and jeans, not expecting anything great to happen….. But then there it is: sophomore boys molded by god’s own hands. Or at least to my fifteen year old self.

Now dsj, he wasn’t anything special at first glance: I was a little taller than him, and he hid behind thick rimmed glasses. It was the moment he opened his mouth, though, that I was absolutely taken. Wit, sarcasm, and the ability to get me, the snark queen, to shut the fuck up. I was infuriated, embarrassed, and mystified. The usual awkward silences ensued and I had then convinced myself that it wasn’t worth it; but as he had to leave, me muttered something in a voice I can no longer recall, “It was really nice talking to you tonight.” And once again, I was floored. I got home, and the symbol of interest in our generation lay in wait: one friend request.

Needless to say, things didn’t quite turn out so great– which was completely my fault, by the way. I was dealing with being an insecure teenager and held on much too tight. I don’t know how it happened, but dsj and I, two years later, are suddenly reconnecting; and in a way that feels so much easier than before.

July’s posing to be interesting… I can’t wait to see what crazy shit is going to happen this time.

Memories # 2: then the shit hits the fan

“I think I like your best friend.”

Such innocent words spoken over the gentle brush of the water slapping the cold tilesof the swimming pool– all eyes were on me, most of which averted when those words left your mouth.

I’ve written you countless letters, none of which you will ever be able to see. I prepared my heart for this, of course. Someone like her, who doesn’t realize the beauty she has and isn’t too loud, isn’t too quiet; she listens, she cares, she puts other people before her.

She isn’t me.

I’m brash, I think and talk too much, I’m too much of a wildcard for someone like you. 

I’ve also forced myself to keep going as if everything was alright– even if I broke down that night in the hotel room, head in my hands and letting you know everything: how often I thought of you, how I couldn’t get you out of my head, how I would disappear. I had never cried so much. 

I’ve been left and humiliated, torn apart and beaten; but there was nothing that could compare to those alcohol-infused moments where I could barely see you beyond a thin film of tears, trying to get words out through sobs. I saw it coming.

I hated you so much.

I hated it when you put your hand on my head, you forced me to look at you even though I didn’t want you to see the way I looked: ugly and red and swollen. I hated the way you told me I shouldn’t disappear because I meant so much to you– as that friend you could always count on. 

Do you remember when I tried to leave?

Do you remember asking me where I was going?

“Away.” I answered you, do you remember that? Trying not to look at you and hand on the knob, lingering. I asked you to break my heart just a few minutes earlier, to set things straight and rid me of any hope. I turned the knob, ready to take on this new feeling of emptiness.

Then you spoke, knocking over one of the empty bottles of beer as your toe nudged it; maybe you were walking toward me.

“I’ll find you, you know.”

I hate you so much.

I hate you for being so nice to me, for picking me up whenever I was down.

I hate you for being the one who brought me home that night, keeping the door open for me while I trudged in home.

I hate you for trying to stay in my life.

Memories # 1: the calm before the storm

I noticed you, but I didn’t.

Everyone else recalls the time when I first started talking to you, I don’t. Even you reminded me once. I didn’t know anything about you, and slowly, after a little bit of texting; I forgot who you were.

You probably did the same.

But then prom season came along, and you know how it goes for gender-exclusive schools. We girls are awarded with the pains of looking for a prom date. After much, much ado; someone suggested you. My thoughts were pretty much: why not, it’s only a night, right? So I asked you at your school fair, you said yes; but I felt like I forced you into it somehow…

Everything between me asking you and prom caught me by surprise; I was paying more attention to you, finding myself remembering you at the strangest times. It was only one night, right? Even when you got piss drunk at my classmate’s party and ralphed all over everyone, I found myself having the time of my life– I was beginning to wonder if it was because you were around.

Then prom night came, a full month later.

I remember my stomach turning into a black hole when they told me you were coming; a film of sweat forming between my skin and the PS3 controller than I clung to for dear life– my heart couldn’t take it. It was only one night, right? Only one night and you wouldn’t have a reason to talk to me anymore. We arrived, finally, and proceeded to be given the nickname “the disappearing act of the night”. I’m sure you remember, the unwinding away from the prom venue, where you pretended you were walking on the ceiling?

And in that darkness, with both of our backs to the warm marble, I wondered something. You spoke about everything, and I found myself comfortable settling in the dark, just listening to your voice. I had always been the talkative one, but with you? I could’ve never spoken again if it meant you never leaving.

….I guess it’s safe to assume that right then and there, you melted my heart. Your words were poetry, everything you did was poetry.

You told me stories about this girl you used to like; you said you were over her…. But I didn’t believe you for one second. You used to be the guy I didn’t give a second thought to, and now I was hurting over you because I had already lost the battle before I realized it was mine.

….But what can I say now?

Our talks by the bookstore, that one time at your place, even just over text…? They’ve kept me going. Even if I know this ‘you and I’ won’t happen… Just the fact that you’re around, H, keeps me going as the sun settles elsewhere.

It’s been a month since I’ve heard your voice, but I’ll keep waiting here in the dark until I do.