17
The last song had just been played and you were standing on top of the hill, floppy brown hair in your eyes and the biggest grin I've ever seen plastered across your face. I took a picture of you. The excitement, the sweat - but although some things can never be captured, I still tried. I shook it in my hand. I tasted on my tongue, my skin. Everything was in its right place. I kept you in my heart of hearts and I wore you on my sleeve of sleeves. The night was hot and humid but we still chose to walk. We couldn't stay still, the molecules bounced off one another in a curious frenzy. And when I got home I wrote everything down but before the ink had its chance to dry I began to sound silly and romantic. I am constantly struggling to differentiate between the two. Tonight however is not for tempering, and perhaps that is why I took the photograph. To hold and to remember. The sad thing is that memories don't outlive people. People outlive memories.
25
The folding of a letter, the sound the drawer makes as it shuts, the turning of a key and the click of a lock. Everything was in its right place. But I wonder to myself - is this intentional forgetting anything more than an act of cowardice? We experience time in a very strange way, we feel as if it is constant and that there is a linear progression to it. But time is like a train as it hurtles towards an unknown destination, and only when it stops at various points in the journey are we able to contextualize it. Nothing will ever be as concrete as it is now, when we are actively experiencing it. The rest will be lost to nostalgia. I am afraid our narratives diverge here, and there is no point in grasping. There are many pages yet unwritten for us both and although saddening, there should be much excitement for what is to come.
53
It was nice seeing you today. If we write a book about our lives, how much space do we allocate the characters that populate this novel? How important are some people in contrast to others? Do they deserve a line? A paragraph? An entire chapter? Do they feature fleetingly or do they keep coming back again and again - in different chapters and on numerous lines? What convictions do we assign these characters? How prominent are these characters in our lives? And how prominent are we to them? Are we just footnotes in the lives of others? A moody publisher. A line of admirers I fear I have grown weary of. Coffee stains on a table after the book signing. A long heartwarming conversation over bagels. It was almost as if nothing had ever changed. But that was impossible, it was only time trying to convince us that there was nothing which had been lost to history. And yet, the lump in my throat remains. Have all my words ironically deserted me? Do I have none left? It is said that actions speak louder than words, but then again I've always been a quiet person.
89
I found something extremely interesting today. An old picture I don't remember taking. Nor do I remember the person in the photograph although I feel I should. My convictions aren't as strong as they used to be. The strife that used to drive me has been turned down a notch, that is not to say that I understand a lot more now, it's just that I don't worry so much about not understanding anymore. Time is contagious, and all my friends have gotten old. The train is slowing down and I know it won't be long before I have to disembark. I've been blessed with so many wonderful realizations but I doubt I have the space for any more. As I'm writing all of this down my mind drifts to different places and different people - pity how none of them seem to be in clear focus anymore. Isn't it funny how we move forward in time but our thoughts move backward? A smile on a hill. A long walk. A closed drawer. A face in a crowd. These snippets of memory frustrate me because they exist as that - mere snippets. All that remains is an idea of what happened. I fold the photograph and place it in my pocket as I smile to myself. Not remembering burdens me slightly, but I doubt I will be burdened for much longer.
89
I found something extremely interesting today. An old picture I don't remember taking. Nor do I remember the person in the photograph although I feel I should. My convictions aren't as strong as they used to be. The strife that used to drive me has been turned down a notch, that is not to say that I understand a lot more now, it's just that I don't worry so much about not understanding anymore. Time is contagious, and all my friends have gotten old. The train is slowing down and I know it won't be long before I have to disembark. I've been blessed with so many wonderful realizations but I doubt I have the space for any more. As I'm writing all of this down my mind drifts to different places and different people - pity how none of them seem to be in clear focus anymore. Isn't it funny how we move forward in time but our thoughts move backward? A smile on a hill. A long walk. A closed drawer. A face in a crowd. These snippets of memory frustrate me because they exist as that - mere snippets. All that remains is an idea of what happened. I fold the photograph and place it in my pocket as I smile to myself. Not remembering burdens me slightly, but I doubt I will be burdened for much longer.
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