I don’t hang postcards around my room anymore, but I keep them in a drawer beside my bed. What I’m saying is I like to keep the things I used to love in the same room as my dreams. To remind me. Love is still here. Within me. I write myself letters with questions I don’t know the answers to, in hopes that by the time I go back and read them, I’ll have already answered them.
I ask, does the foggy Boston morning look the same if I’m not feeling the same as I did then? If I was standing on the train platform tomorrow morning, would I dance the same way I did then? Would sitting on the trampoline in the backyard still feel as good if the sun wasn’t on my face? Will that passageway still tie knots in my gut if I walked through it today? Would I do it any differently? Would you?
I have an addiction to the word why. But there is a misconception about my intentions. I have only ever wanted to learn. That is all it’s ever been about. I have a child’s curious heart and I just want to be better. Not better like I used to want. Better like stronger. Better like it’s a question in my drawer that I’m still trying to answer.
You see, I have a blue heart. This is not a sad thing. Believe me.
When you asked me what music I listen to, I looked at my feet because how do I say I have a list of songs that correspond to feelings. I have a list of songs that remind me of people I’m not in touch with anymore. I have a list of songs that give me goosebumps, and one for walking alone. I look at my feet and weigh my options. I settle on this, “If you listened to my melodies, you’d think I was a sad girl.” And I wonder if this makes you run. I wonder if you’ll wait around to find out that I’m not.
At heart, I just want to make things immortal.
You, mostly.
I have always thought you were mad
and remarkable and wildly intelligent.
I am never sorry for documenting it.
***
I wonder if you’ll understand why I cry when people say I look happy.
Sometimes you never know what you’re feeling until someone tells you that it’s oozing out your pores.
Somewhere in the ravine behind my parent’s house there is a pale filled to the brim with tears of laughter. I used to keep it in my room, but that’s back when I was keeping score. Now, I sleep without thinking much about it. Now, I wake up with tears on my pillow and I’m not afraid. Not as much as I used to be anyway.
Whenever the songs start getting a little too “rainy Tuesday afternoon,” I think about eighth grade, and how we had a little boom box and one James Taylor CD. We played Fire and Rain on repeat for weeks. No one thought to bring another CD to school. Whenever I hear it, I am sitting between white brick walls drawing hearts inside my desk with pink gel pen. Those innocent untouched days, I remember how I never once tired of it. The same way I never tired of you. But then one day we stopped playing it and I don’t remember anybody being too sad about it.