Of the memories to remember, to try and remember! That first one when we looked into each other’s eyes—when we knew it all, all at once, the beginning and the end of it all. We knew it was a disaster, lurking in the night, the silence between the sways of an eternal pendulum. I forget that first moment when I lost myself in your eyes, the seconds of years, the moments where the world around us didn’t materialize as distance between us, our lives became the distance between us. The unfinishedness of us. The steadfast of memory! But what good is a memory of backspacing! The delight of a moment! What good is a memory if it’s not readily sustained, like gravity and change. The toll of a lifetime, loving as a constant and forgetting. The easy part is forgetting, which washes away the sins of the bad times and the ugliness of it all while the nostalgia slips in, mocks you, and punches you straight in the mouth. Fucks you up like Orange Driver! All my delusions are on repeat of loving and forgetting and having no way to erase you. I’m stuck on repeat, pressing the same broken buttons. So, here on repeat.
This won’t be a pretty sight; this way, I write. I write like the shadow a bird’s wings make over the pavement. Probably a seagull or better fitting, a pigeon (that takes me 3 times to spell correctly). I hope to be cyclic, redundant, and repetitive in nature, like an alphabet series or the noodles floating around in the chicken soup, an A, an S, or a broken L.
So, I repeat myself like stars and patterns found in nursery rhymes. Yet, there is no point. It goes on. Isn’t it sarcasm time again? Isn’t that just too difficult to catch on the tip of an eyelash? It’s the humidity of words weighing you down; what does this fucker mean? Whatever does he mean?
When I am serious, I speak monotone and fast but slow, steady, and straight into your eyes. Then take a moment, look at my pauses, the emoted ellipses searching for something outlandish, stupid, outlandish (probably sexual), and you know I’m trying to make you laugh, but do not forget the difference. It never comes out right; first time, second time, third time, no striking—this isn’t fucking baseball. It’s like playing the piano; I’m guaranteed to fuck up every song. I’m no Schubert. I’m barely me. I’ll live with my crappy piano playing. I’ll tap those keys harder, softer, longer and slurred and sustained like when I’m drunk. I’ll figure out Tiersen better than any argument. I ramble like my grandmother. Perhaps we’re related. So maybe I won’t take life so seriously, I won’t write everything as a metaphor of tired inner dialogue, and just maybe I’ll use lighter language and dehumidify and desaturate my words. Press them lightly as a tender kiss on your head, our eyes closing to our end.