I wrote a short story about someone I think I love. I'm not sure how- how I wrote the story or how I love them. I changed things a little bit, so people wouldn't suspect. They didn't. This happened a while ago: going on a year, a good year, a year full of full of hope? I'm not quite sure. For a time afterwards, I regretted writing it. I felt love no more. I liked to think that I had matured, moved on, become... better. But today I look back at my short story and I realize what I thought for a time afterwards was true. Not in the way I had thought. My love has matured. Become better. It is no longer just a childish carefree love, but a love deep, based in a mentality that we share. The most careful, protected love. I know better now, than to just love the surface. Even if I'm not sure how I love- at least now I know I do.
recently i rediscovered the music of my youth. it's really a strange sensation to listen to a song or an album after fourteen years and know every single word, be able to whistle the tune without even thinking, but a good one at that. by the music of my youth i don't mean the pop music of the early 2000's, the stuff that came out when i was at that crucial stage of development. what i'm talking about is the music my parents were listening to through our only CD player at the time, the one in the library, inside of the blocky old Dell computer sitting atop a stack of L.L.. Bean Christmas catalogs older than me. when i was young, we laid an extra mattress in the library. after dinner on summer nights, when it was 7:30 and still bright as noon, we would pile atop the bare mattress and listen to music while the screen saver on the computer floated and danced across the screen.
How can this all be over? We just realized how good we had it, and now we're about to lose it all. I used to say that I was happy being alone, but really, it terrifies me. Every moment I spend hiding out in my own mind, alone with my thoughts, I feel the weight of every mistake I've ever made fall on my shoulders. I shake with memories of embarrassing moments of my third grade awkwardness, and feel the absolute inability to move past it. So why am I out here alone now, wasting precious time when I could be with them? The sunset is almost a metaphor for our fleeting time together, and I'm staring it down, stone-cold, willing it not to move past the horizon. Stay. I should go inside, spend these last few days squeezing in as many words as I can, laughing as loud as possible, saying everything I need them to hear.
Not much was different, if you thought about it. Not much besides me being a year older. Besides him being back at school. Besides them breaking up.
Everything else was the same. Same little kids walking past with their parents, same questions bout what kind of instrument I was hauling around. Same soccer shorts and t-shirt and black Converse combo, a power trio for me. Same bus ride.
The first day of tenth grade was fine. Good, even. For two hours. Then things got weird. Some rumor, that's new. I didn't ask for that. I'll get over it.
My music is calming me. Reminding me of summer days that tore my heart apart, but in the good way that makes you feel alive. I'm forgetting today.
a month without any sign of life from you. i know. we only knew each other a week. but the subject line of our emails, long past, was always a promise. a promise that you wouldn't disappear like you seem to have. what happened?
your last message was full of that humor and passion that excited me so- i was sure it would be recurring. what's keeping you away?
two months since i saw your face. since i saw you pull that one-eyed-squint-while-nodding deal that i've felt myself do many times, before and after we met.
now i can't remember if you're real. i need your advice. i need to sit with you and eat cake, and edit quietly and make eye contact that would be disturbing to anyone else. please.