I wonder if you remember that moment the same way I do.
I’m not even sure I know which moment I’m talking about. All of them probably.
Sometimes my memory is a filmstrip of negatives and I’m twelve years old again at my friend’s birthday party at the movie theatre. I’m standing in the projection room running my finger along the timeline. How did I end up here? There’s some beauty in it, but there’s also a lot of oily fingerprints that I’m not sure what to do about.
Like yesterday, you showed up in my peripherals, just for one frame of a moment, and suddenly it’s like the damn sandbags are made of styrofoam peanuts and my care is scattered everywhere. I’m a PEZ dispenser of love and you’re a kid on Halloween. We’re both too old for this and I refuse to dress up as something I’m not, even if it sounds fun. Even if we’re hungry.
The last time we talked, I played a game of dizzy bat on the way home. I woke up disoriented and after that I didn’t think you’d look the same. The next time I saw you though, it was myself I didn’t recognize.
If I were still standing in that projection room, I’d probably take a lighter to the filmstrip. It’s funny how life puts you in certain places that feel like burning, but in some way it’s a form of protection. Sometimes when you think your life is a cross between a satire and a tragedy, it’s really just a little tired from dodging the buses you keep stepping out in front of. You should check the lock on the door and get some sleep tonight. You should help it out a little and wait one more second before you step off the curb.
I keep reminding myself that I’ll never get my synchronistic moments if I never leave my apartment. Life is a little bit of luck sure, but I’ll never see the foggy Boston morning if I don’t take off the cinder block boots and get in the car. I can’t have answers until I ask questions. So I ask them – even if I roll around on the carpet after I hit send. Who cares about the answers – at least I know I did everything I could have done.
So what do you do when the questions you ask are normally a golf tee for failure? But then you ask the guy what’s his favourite kiss with you? And he pauses to think, and then says something like, “That’s easy, the next one.” He says it so matter-of-factly that you want to melt into the pavement like it’s high July even though it’s the back of September. Do you keep asking them? Is it safe now?
Did you outlive limbo and barrel over the edge only to find you weren’t at the peak yet? How long should you rejoice in the downhill before you lose momentum and start climbing again? These are the questions I like to hang like postcards around my room.
So put on your softest white t-shirt and crawl into bed tonight. Pull the sheets over your bare hips because you are all the warmth you need. You can answer the questions in the morning. You asked them, and for that, you can be proud.
Wait, one more thing – you know how you can’t fall asleep if you think you might have left the door unlocked? I just need to answer one of the questions before I close my eyes. I whisper out loud; I know you don’t remember anything like I do.