Sunday, November 5, 2017

Young, surviving was never a question. Never doubted ability to approach fire and aim right through. This is true. And reckless, and exactly as it should be. Cracking your own heart, easy as eggs.

Even back before that, when all I knew was my own daydream of what love might one day mean. Collaging in the CB room at my grandma's house, listened to Z93 and 97X on her silver boombox. Slipping a cassette in(scotch-taped on top) when I heard something worth recording. I was awkward and bored and full of aspiration to be the girl in the Noxema ad with perfect spiral curls. Typical puberty.

Some sore spots find their way to tenderness. Over time I've snaptwisted many memories into kindling. Wad of photographs depicting every bar/diner/curb I sat upon scribbling, getting the moment down thinking one day I might need it. I can't carry it all anymore.

What to do with all the heaviness? All things lugged through time in metaphorical mismatched suitcases, dragged through mud, passenger of canoe as I paddle an ocean of days. Burn it, bury it, drop it, tell it?

Finding flame, unpacking bags, clearing the gut.

I'm going to tell it.

No comments:

Post a Comment