This memory of mine doesn’t work in the way I want. And that is, when it does seem to work. When it doesn’t, it leads some to believe that I may be farther than I appear.
I’ve thought about you, the collective you, and all the things that could have happened, had I stayed on the path a little longer. Not better things, but different.
I miss moments, sparks in a quiet existence. And yet, I don’t truly miss anything, for often times I know when it is. It is me who doesn’t know how to swim back to that river.
I’m ashamed of the things i remember: great meaning and deep feelings, encapsulated in trivial and sometimes vulgar moments that no one would look at twice; I play them ad nauseam in my head.