New Snow

1/9/17

New Snow

A long pause and
A deep breath and
The Earth is silent.
More silent than I’ve ever not heard.

Nothingness
Not even the sound of footsteps
Muffled

No ears ringing or
Children yelling or
Cars murmuring or
Tires squealing or
Blood rushing through
My head.

Frozen fingers and
Toes.
Frigid cheeks and
Chapped mouth.

Lungs burning.
Eyes watery
From the ice-cold.

The best kind of numb.
The numb that eliminates
Feeling and
Echoes thoughts,
Messages,
Single words that
Mean not only something but
Everything.

“You are alive and well, and that’s enough.”

Monachopsis: the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place

5/28/16 (Old, but revised.)

My father told me the story of his youth
And how he’s grown old and his father has died
And how he wishes he could remember all of the moments from his “golden years”
“Those were the days, man.” He said.
And I looked up at him, teary-eyed
And thought about how sad everything feels now; even if I can find joy in certain, perfectly lit, almost too-good-to-be-real moments.
Like a photograph.
And if I’ll remember these days as my “golden years.”
And what happens if I don’t¬¬—
If everything I remember is gray and still, like a poorly lit room during a storm that’s lasted days after days after days.
And then we sit there laughing our guts out,
Like everything is okay when it’s not.
And I turn away and my thoughts wander to the same old soundtrack.
The one of monachopsis.
The one that sings about how difficult life is when you can’t pretend you’ve found the meaning in it, or hold it together just one more day.
The symphony’s sweetest sound is when lyrics are tied together in just the right knot.

No reply

Round and round and round and round and round.

I’m on the tilt-a-whirl at the fair.
It’s a still summer night.
I throw my head back
Giggling.

I picture this image as I sit,
Waiting for you to call.

And the phone doesn’t ring
And doesn’t ring
And doesn’t ring.

I make my way out of bed
Not even fumbling for the light switch.
It’s late evening, and my palms are sweaty.

My head spins like I’ve been on a rollercoaster.

I look in the mirror
And see skin white as a sheet,
Eyes bloodshot,
Lips cracked.

I fumble back to bed.

The phone still doesn’t ring.

14 minutes later,
a text: sorry, I’ve been out all day.

“Hey!! It’s okay haha, I’m sure you were busy. How was your day?”

Delivered.

Read.

No reply.

Nostalgia

Nostalgia. What a funny word. Nostalgia: a sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations. I think it’s funny because I can feel nostalgic for a moment that isn’t yet in the past. Nor does it have to be a happy association. I can feel nostalgia for the people who’ve hurt me so bad I feel like I’m running through mud after them. I can feel nostalgia for June 2nd, 2014: The (no longer since) happiest day of my life. I can even feel nostalgia for all of last May — when things were starting to look up, but was still the lowest I’ve ever felt. I can feel nostalgia for the time when I couldn’t feel anything at all. I can feel nostalgia when I’m on the beach after all this, running in my underwear out to the ocean and hoping it can hear my laughter and see me smile. All of these moments are indescribable. A fleeting second in my life, yes, but the memories will live on. Nostalgia is a word in which you feel sad for feeling happy. And I’m not sure whether that’s painful or beautiful or depressing. Maybe all of the above.