The other day…

The other day, I wrote about you, quiet words just for me. My journal is heavy with the weight of thousands upon thousands of quiet words. And loud words. And sweet ones. Angry ones. Violent ones. Broken ones.

I couldn’t remember your name.

It was a shock. A physical shock. I felt it in the pit of my stomach. A kind of panic.

I was still for a few moments, probing around the inside of my head. Trying to find it.

I realised that I had gone past the sweet gentle memory I had aimed to keep of you, and you had disappeared far far back in that dusty drawer in that dark room that I hadn’t visited for so long.

A ghost, transparent, not even real any more.

I am in touch with my ex loves, but not you, not you. It was too painful, too harsh, too much, and you slipped away. A good decision, yours, really. I am bad at the void.

I remembered your name at last, with some relief. I could have looked it up, of course, but that wasn’t the point.

My memories are always snapshots, feelings, moments, and I write partly because I know they will slip away. I can’t be trusted with truth or with history.

But now those that were yours are like tattered prayer flags, stripped of colour, unravelling in the elements, barely recognisable as the bright fluttery defiant beauties they once were. Touched and handled and worn out and slowly disappearing even as they still hang in the breeze.

A little melancholy lives there still, soft and accusatory: THAT I will probably keep until the last.

GD Star Rating
loading...

You may also like

20 Comments

  1. Well, I spent my entire adult life telling other people how good or how bad their writing was. I was quite good at it. My words flowed easily and smoothly and abundantly. This piece leaves me wanting for the right words, the clever phrases, the admirable praises. It is that good.

    respectfully
    stan

  2. I’ve had that happen. It’s usually this weird, hollow thing where I realize I’m finally over them. And oddly, that hurts just as much, for a moment, as when I couldn’t say their name and still breathe. Then it’s gone, that moment. And they’ve become just another person I once knew.

    1. I absolutely agree: there is a sadness in letting go of the sadness.

      For me, the ‘being over him’ happened ages ago. I never thought I would get to the ‘can’t remember his name’ stage EVER though. It was a huge shock.

      Ferns

  3. I panicked a few months ago when I couldn’t remember precisely how his growl sounded. That memory I thought was forever seared into my brain was gone. And I was sad. I guess it’s part of letting go but it’s a part I don’t like very much.

    1. It IS part of letting go, memories softening and slowly disappearing. But his name… his NAME?! That shocked me.

      And I don’t like it much either. I want them to be a little blurry around the edges, but still intact.

      FErns

  4. It’s the old timers dear I’ll bring you a nice cup of cocoa in a minute and we can have an early night, that’ll be nice won’t it?
    And why have you put a picture of your knickers drying up there?
    Coug

    P.S.
    Have a hug (virtual sadly) cos you’re special
    Coug

    PPS

    No not that sort of special. . .

    1. Sometimes you have to take knicker-drying opportunities as they arise. DON’T JUDGE ME!

      And thank you for the hug.

      Wait… who are you and why are you talking to me?

      Ferns

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.