memory

It is difficult experiencing in extremes. Going from all to nothing. It is a strain losing that which you knew, experienced and shared so intimately. It pulls at you, as it strays further into the distance. The only way to breathe again quickest is to break, cut, snap loose that which you are tied to. It is the only way to carry on, on your own. It is no surprise that we fail to turn around and look back for we suffer the fear of reattaching. Last night or early in the morning, however you decide to consider time—regardless in a state of delirium—I bordered the fine line between crying with and without tears. It lasted for about thirty-five seconds and then, I don’t remember what happened next, other than I got over it or just fell into a deep sleep. Music was permeating my bedroom and it just took me back. I thought about how one looses the past and eventually will loose someone that was such a figure of the present in that past. One may even know someone who loses the self that constituted the past. That’s what got to me. I just feel like he has been lost—that he lost himself and now I can’t locate him in the present, I can only find him in our past… in the memory of our past, which is and was so crowded with sensations to begin with. It was all so much, too much, that in retrospect I have no feelings to feel, just a confusion of the facts, the truth, the genuine emotion that drove all my actions. For those thirty-five seconds I saw a mental trailer of scenes that spanned two years. And in that trailer of my life, I recognized an actor who had the most delicious smile. A smile so honest—a smile so soft that it stole the presence of an entire room and my entire world that existed during that time. He chose the most ideal music, as if each song were a particular message to the composite of a larger and more extraordinary secret. Each note was at its most romantic that you can only wonder how much he must have felt, how much he needed to share and all that he wanted to know of you and from you. The romance of discovery. These are all impressions that lasted—that a single person is responsible for. And now, I know nothing of this person: where he went, if he is only hiding—and the person I do know (as he is today) emits no presence and leaves no impression. I had this image, this waking dream, of approaching him as he is now. He wouldn’t know I was coming up behind him, it would be a surprise for the both of us, and I would pinch his cheeks and turn on his smile. And then everything would be okay, and I would laugh happily feeling as though things had been corrected. Sometimes I feel like my heart is too big, and that it gets in the way?

Right now a candle is dripping wax across my furniture, and because it has already begun and left its mess, I’m just going to let it continue. I’m in a course called The Art of Writing the Personal Essay—the first day I discussed my logic for enrolling; it is where journalism is going (fingers crossed). Though, I wouldn’t say writing typically structured essays overly excites me, I will say I was pleased and motivated by what I learned about the medium. Personal essayists take mundane, over-looked, repetitious experiences and breathes life into them in attempt to re-expose the experience under a more intimate, provocative and evocative light. This is what I do—perhaps it is exhausting for the reader, my over rationalizing and over reasoning meditations on what may be regarded as simple, or not regarded at all. But oh well, I like to unweave the intricate fashions of behavior and restitch the material so the design models a more complex formulation. I don’t think my mind will ever over simplify any manner or matter at hand, for better or for worse. I pick and choose that which is important to me and that which I give my attention to—some find this selfish, I just believe in quality over quantity. Ideas for personal essays I want to consider writing: the disappearance and reappearance of memory and the idealization of another (is what the person stands for nothing other than a concept? Does one inflate this dummy figure with glorifying praises, subconsciously motivated by the desire to glamorize the other and thus, romanticize the shared relation? Why is this an innate necessity by so many?).