dearwednesday
I love forgetting. Because then you can just reread all those old books. You touch the spines, and you feel a spark. Like you used to love this book, like there used to be a connection, and you just don't know what it is. It's at your fingertips, and you know you could read it again. Maybe you won't remember. If you don't, you get the most beautiful gift- the ability to read a book for the first time. Again.
I smooth my skirt down nervously. Don't be scared, mother says. Stop fidgeting, sister says. We love you, father says. I can't do this, I say. I look at my hands, shaking. I look at my knees, trembling. I look at my skirt, plaid. And I think. I can't do this.
"I stuffed my life into sewn canvas. I put every single memory laced piece of fabric I could lay my hands on in that silly back. And you had the nerve, the audacity, to FORGET IT?! My essence was in that bag. My love was in that back. And, most importantly, MY BOOKS were in THAT BAG."
It's a montage, she says. Definition: it's a clusterfluff of images she thinks is art. Who am I kidding, it IS art. It's her own special brand. Just because I don't exactly understand doesn't mean it's not art. I guess, I mean...maybe I'm jealous. I mean, it's a freaking MONTAGE.
Remembering is a painful thing. It's game with yourself. Sometimes it's a lying game, sometimes a fight. But sometimes, sometimes it's that beauty right as the glass hits the floor. The moment where everything is about to fall apart, but that one second where everything hangs in the balance is the most wondrous thing you've ever seen. So, remember? Alright.
Remember. Remember what? Hell, I don't know what I should remember. I feel like there should be some defining moment in my life? Don't have one? Too bad!
Am I missing out? Did I do something wrong? I don't know what to remember, I don't know what's expected.
Remember? What the Hell am I supposed to do with that?
Remember what?
I remember too much. And not all of it is my own...I take them, I take them when it's painful for them, painful for me, better for everyone. The weight, the weight nearly kills me. I don't know how to live with so many voices. But somehow...I keep stealing them. Do you know what it tastes like, memories? Bitter. They choke me, but I keep stealing memories.
Stop me, please.
She glanced in his direction, irritation plain on her face. He swept back his greasy hair and laughed stupidly, swinging his ape arms. She scowled and eyed his most detestable aspect: sideburns.
writing since 2011 · 9 entries · 7 days shown up
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