The space between what is and what once was is filled with fiction. Take me there, if only for a moment, so I can draw out a striking sentiment and swallow it whole. Then I’ll quickly move to wherever I need to be. No reason to drown in stale water. Filter out the impurities.
I went to a progressive church service two years ago. While there, the sermon discussed premarital and adulterated sex. White roses passed through each individual’s hands. Petals fell, roses were bruised, and by the time the roses made it to the ends of sections and rows, they were no longer as beautiful. I didn’t buy into the analogy. Instead, I was thinking about the virgins and how terrifying sex must be for them. I didn’t return to that church ever again. Sex shouldn’t be compared to ugliness.
That’s what I don’t like about memories. They trap you.
I have a friend who thinks that every email I send her is going to be full of venom. Notorious for writing scathing notes while in high school, her memory of reading my writing is a bad one. She won’t read my blog. I sent her an email two weeks ago. Her response started with, “Man, I was nervous opening this up.” It’s been 10 years since I’ve sent her any negativity. Whatever I said damaged the file, but I’m not interested in knowing. I’m not in the business of holding onto anything that makes me anxious ten years down the road.
Perhaps that’s why I love writing. If I want to look back at a moment, I can. If I don’t want to now, it’s there for me to go back to later. And it’s all true. These aren’t flooded with years of extra resentment or fear or sadness.
Hurt clouds everything if you let it. Acknowledgment of this is freeing.
I’ve made it to second base with the prom queen already. That’s not to say she’s easy, I’m just having exceptionally fantastic days.