Day 59: Prose: Angsty Memories
He tells me I should go home and write tonight. And through my defensively, tired stupor, I ask him [in my head] “What do you want to hear?” Based on our conversation, should I somehow try to accurately recall sitting in the East bedrooms of an empty, 3 story house mid-December in Atlantic City, refreshing my mind as to why it doesn’t work? Or should I look through everything I wrote that night and turn it into some sort of vulnerable masterpiece. I’m running full force with my field pack on my back it’s not filled with resuscitation devices, only defense mechanisms. Because I could write about the 2am phone call I received that flipped a 6 year trust into a destructed sand castle in mere seconds. Or about purposely missing trains after spending hours sitting outside the Philly 30th Street Station, chain smoking and drinking Dunkin Donuts hot chocolate with solemn “come back” phone calls. But none of them add up. I’ve filed them away. Tucked them into some time capsule that can only be released upon extreme pressure— or when pried open gently. It is not saved for anyone. Just carelessly tossed into the Grand Canyon and burried by some coyotes. But he. He had to be the hawk that dug it up and dropped it into my lap. Sending me into a whirlwind of what I shouldn’t write about. Because who the hell wants to hear about failed relationships, honesty gone awry, or being too afraid to sleep in the same bed again. Sleeping on the living room floor instead. Staring at the Christmas lights put up in vain, an attempt to relight some fire. Who the fuck cares about memories that I don’t even want to remember?
This was a freewrite I did this morning (isn’t everything I write?) and it’s so angsty and all “who wants to listen to meeee” but meh. Eff it. I like it. I like the honesty and the imagery. But that one field pack line might need to tie in a bit better… So, suck it. (defensive…)
words and images 365.
