I met you.

August 26, 2009

Remembering is far more absurd than forgetting. A memory of a certain person, their smell, their nervous twitches and the way they stared as you pretended not to notice; it serves as a bookmark. The bookmark in one of the many large & small books that will surely have chapter breaks, tension builders and dissappointing conclusions. Our books have those pages that we wish we could tear out, pages that make us question whether to keep reading. But just like a book, you can read a page, or a chapter over and over again, but the words will never change. The words, the letters are printed, immortalized on yellowish pieces of paper, and we’ll continue to stare even though the page won’t move, relocate, or alter it’s form.

I have books that I haven’t yet to read, but want to. I have too many of those. I buy them, and they sit on my shelf, anxiously waiting to be read, but I’ll put them off because they’re not the book that I’m in love with. They’re not the book that feels different each time I read it although it is exactly the same. They’re not the book that sits in my bag, damaged and weathered as it is, coffee stains and dog-ears staining the run throughs, marking those moments when I absolutely needed those pages to find a certain quote. Those quotes, I use here, and there, and hold in my pocket for random reflection and conversation.

I smoke cigarettes again. As good as it felt to be rid of them, it’s hard to deny that I feel even better when they poke my lungs like extra heartbeats. I felt good when I didn’t smoke, but I missed them so much. I missed how they felt in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep, and the way they’d vanquish the petty worries that polluted my days. I missed having that crutch, that go-to thing that could add a little romance to mundane situations, add a little relaxation to my nerves on a rough day. I shouldn’t need to smoke, and it’s bad for me, but the long term, possibly fatal consequences, are minor in comparison to the joy they give me. The feeling of a cigarette on my lips, or knowing that I can escape the mundanities of work with that small break with my camels, was a reassurance that many would feel as fake, silly, or sophmoric. Everyone knows it’s bad for you, and that they aren’t a sign of any intelligent status, but we do them, because there is nothing else to do, and when we’re feeling unsure, the little breaths of joy are something we cannot let go.

When I listen to this song, I like to think how much it would mean to me, and to the people with me, if I had written it. Would it change the context? The meaning of the lyrics, or the beauty of the words? Well that’s nothing to worry about, because I can’t sing at all.


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