photo by themorningtrain

"Why, in retrospect, do things accrue a sort of condescending poetry? Because we've been there, and we like to think we've passed that island. But sometimes I feel like there is a 12, 14, 16, 18-year-old self stuck inside of my head with super-powerful chewing gum, intransigent and immutable. And this doesn't always strike me as a bad thing, but it isn't good either, because I always want to get better. I don't want to wake up one day all-but braindead, aspiring for nothing.

But maybe I desire too much, and too shallowly, because I've been coveting so many objects in my head. And not even specific objects- abstract ideals. I think of a typewriter, vintage, and sturdy but in a soft seafoam colour that makes you want to breathe in the salty scent of the sea; imbued with a magic which would churn out page after page of weep-worthy prose. I think of clothes. I have the fabric in my head. Soft and patterned. The cut and the colour. The stitch on a hem. Skirts, ice cream soft shirts, darling peacoats, long, slouchy beanies, ankle boots, red sparkly heels, mary janes, tights, t shirts, exquisite little dresses, cocktail confections for glamorous parties that I would end up detesting to attend. And maybe to psychologically reassure myself that I'm not all that materialistic I think of novels. Novels with matte covers and breathing plot-lines, novels which don't have to have any award stamp, shortlisted recognition . Just stories to make me think.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm intellectually lazy. Sure I can say I'm easily taken by things, prone to wonder and sentimentality. But it's entirely incidental. I let these things arrive and amaze me, when really I should be seeking them out. I should be reading more, taking initiative- especially regarding my future. I don't like to think about planning for the future. But I guess I have to pretty soon, but not immediately now.

I used to believe that fondness was like a natural, tangible warmth; sunshine on your shins, the back of your neck, filtered through a window. And that same way that I could feel it waning. But that's all just paranoia, quack theories, trying to sound clever.

No response is worse than no response, and right now I sit here feeding you words and negotiating with a silence which will not tell me anything. And tomorrow hopefully, perhaps, you will say something entirely reassuring and I will feel silly for having been so unsure, written worries about a finite lull, no change of emotion. But for now I am unsure. I am afraid, I repeat, of being dimly remembered. Of inevitable recession and reaching the point where I don't even know if I want to reply, when my hands hover over a keyboard or a bunch of numbers and deliberate - who will be the first to do it?

Catalyse this slow, subtle crumbling act of cutting each other off. "Better a blaze of extinction than a lantern-glimmer of the same?" But we are not speaking in literary hyberbole. It's Saturday in the unremarkable present, nothing will end in death or vengeance, only a quiet. Today and every day nothing is clear at all, except some names on glossy paper, the way you always spoke in the callous dialogue of someone unafraid."