memory

When we touch fingers, I watch my reflection consumed by you a little more each day. You own my happiness, dictate my melancholy, rewarding me when I shave myself away. 

In my heart, however, I would explain that the best sleep-provoking scents smell like the warmth of a blanket and the sweetness of a mother’s touch; like the freshness of cool sheets and the lightness of a goodnight kiss.

When you disappear, none of us notice until you’re gone. Turning the corner, we make a left and descend the stairs to the parking lot. It’s littered with vehicles, waste and gum on the concrete. Someone is screaming, I don’t know who. Maybe we’re all screaming all at once. 

The singular dimension we travel through doesn’t allow us to bring the past back in all its authenticity. But we can revisit the past, and sometimes take hold of its malleability, simply reimagining it.

When one social media platform gives way to another, those forgotten spaces on the internet become ever more alive.

And so at the very same time, things seemed to be the way they’d always been. Returning only reacquainted me with the rules and rituals.

Butoh looked like an outlet to honestly express and release my unwanted attachment to the past. It also looked like a fun way to be the weirdo I naturally am.

Last year, I had the time to read several books — and stumbled upon a few stirring quotes in particular — that helped me clarify my view of the past.

These pieces of paper are priceless — not just because I didn’t pay for most of them. They’re the closest thing I have to physically collecting my memories.