You are holding the tickets in your left hand, and you must act in the bright lights for the audiences who bought popcorn in the lobby. Make sure they hear the words when you sing, a spirit can appear if you listen in the echo. The poor cat is sick and spits all over the floor, and you must continue the show smelling of Clorox.
Everything goes out of style at one point or another. Classics are a relative classification. Sure, some things come back into style, but that only proves my point. They have to go out of style to come back.
You weren’t ready to get married, but really, who is ready for marriage. And a few years later, you weren’t ready to become a parent, and you had to manage that. Things unravel over time, and that will inevitably bring some pain.
In the winter before the kid turned twelve, you were so entwined and enmeshed that you were strung out too tightly. And so when you went out of style, metaphorically speaking, to your family, it hurt like hell.
You were at the grocery store picking out peaches. Peaches in the winter were more expensive. Also, they tasted like crunchy tasteless apples. You couldn’t afford the peaches, but why not just this once.
And you felt like you were always about to cry, but you didn’t. And then as you reached for a peach and plucked it of its slanted display, the whole lot of them went tumbling out onto the floor.
You were too tired to try and pick them all up; still, you should have.
But everything falls apart. That is the very nature of our universe. Entropy. Chaos. And we are looking for the order and the patterns within the swirling madness.
Collections of stamps and coins in an old album, collect old blue jeans to repurpose the denim, collect peppery foil stars as a means of meaningless decorations. Bothersome little frills and cut angular speech. Matching shotgun covers for the children, of course, how else can they be kept safe.
It’s harder for me to speak clearly than it is for me to write, hence the quantity of letters on this site. There are some things that I need to tell you in person, but I think it might be nice to write them out first. It’s important for me to know myself a little better before I can really think about others.
That is all, for now. I’ll send it on a postcard.
I don’t know what to say. Somehow, I feel a little cold, but at the same time, my skin is hot to the touch- perhaps it is fever. I want to tell you to stay. But I don’t want you to stay for me, so I try not to sway your decision. I am standing on a street corner beneath a lamppost and I cannot quite call my feet to move.
From a mailbox perch to the wire threads, information in radio waveform runs like water across a moving car’s window. Words are blindly spilled and only a small percentage ever reach the desired ears. Sometimes, we whisper to ourselves in order to hear our voices. I am myself too shy to ever make that first move. How is it possible to move through the air without rippling the frenetic noise out of the way, so that rivers are still leading to the sea? There are songs that rise and vaporize in the daylight, beckoning.
I have an endless list of things to do. My girlfriend calls me up and asks me what I’m doing, but I shrug and say I don’t have any plans. We go out on the night bus, it’s one o’clock and I watch the reflections of the street lights. I really love the rhythm and the dance, but all I want is to ride. My boyfriend calls me up and asks if I have time to talk. Of course I do. We go out on the subway, it’s one o’clock and I watch the people who stop by. I love the boy and the way he speaks, but all I want is to ride. All I want is to ride.
The law binds with varying degrees of tightness. Brother does not question the word of state, for it is truth, and yet, he has never searched for his own truth. Thumb through the stacks of old decrees, dusty and crackling. A whore is no less holy than the figurine upon the mantel, if quantified in goodness measured out by children. Ever since the age of ten, best friends and pinky promises that forever meant some uncounted length of long time. One overstep over the laws’ white lines, and then steely choices made clear and metallic. And who is to say the worth of a person when all of it was chance once ago.
The voice on the phone, usually radiant with frenetic tension, undeniably bright. I watched your reaction as the volume diminished with frightful caution before you leaned against the wall, eyes turned away, flashing. A feral alley cat does not ask for help. Somehow, I knew better than to approach. An outstretched hand: in wait to strike or in wait to steal. You told me not to go.
Two months passed, and you let the voice on the phone leave messages.
And when you lost that one folded envelope, my guy, did you lose your fucking mind.
We’ll be okay. It’s just an envelope.
So you think it’s replaceable?
No, but I mean, it’s an envelope. We can find one like it. There must be one somewhere out there that’s similar.
Oh, so you think my memories are replaceable. You think my feelings are replaceable?
No, your memories and your feelings, no, obviously not, those are in you. But that old envelope, well yeah, I think that piece of paper is replaceable.
I didn’t think that you would understand.
For almost a week, you were inconsolable. Every single possible crevice and layer, you peeled them back. At first, you checked in drawers, boxes, cabinets, containers.
Then, you turned every pocket inside out, crinkled receipts and candy wrappers fluttering to the ground, but nothing.
Then, you searched inside closed books, within waterways, the vacant eyes of passersby, inside your mouth, under the trees’ shade.
This was, a little bit at least, concerning.
I’m not sentimental. I feel lost. I just, I just need it with me. I know that there’s no reason for me to become so attached to an object, but I feel like it’s disrespectful to them, you know.
We lay in silence.
I could not even hear your breathing, and I wondered if you were remembering. The crickets were motionless. The skies were starless- light pollution.
Blunder through the pre-dawn escape, you wince as the floor creaks and gingerly close the door behind you. The sun is kind; it stays in wait behind a soft cloud. There is an orange tree, simple and unadorned beside the mailbox, almost leaning against a wooden fence. Little ants crawl over the fence and scatter as you unlatch the door and slip out that final enclosure. Sorry, you whisper. And before you think too much, you walk. Walk wherever. And in the future, you will not remember the house or whoever was inside, you will not remember the tree or the fence or the ants, just the scent of orange blossoms.