Wearing Memories

That last post improved my spirit. It took some time, but putting into words what was hovering in my cosmos released the tightness in my tummy.

Poetry is hard. I’m not good at it – but raw emotions and tender thoughts are best served in that style … it forces sentences into multiple meanings, which brings a layered credibility to the purpose. It’s incredibly romantic to try and ultimately satisfying when a pattern forms. That one was 3-2 3-2-3 2-3.

That being sad. I didn’t realised when I began writing this morning that the vulnerability I was experiencing was an uninvited feeling that somehow managed to get into the chamber that houses my beating heart. I thought I had sealed that entrance, locked that door and melted the key.

Note to self: Buy a stronger lock.

My road trip tomorrow will bring me distance. Now all I need is Time.

It takes me Time to move past human interactions that make up wishes and regrets. It is the number one trait of mine that makes me absolutely mental. I don’t hold grudges. I carry memories. And with them I maintain the same intensity of emotion for a memory as I had as it was forming.

Whether it’s a memory about a kiss. Or something that happened when I was at school. Or at work. An argument. A lovely chat. A misstep in character. Whatever. Each memory rests right on my sleeve, readily accessible with an active emotion to boot.

I can recreate first-day-of-class nervousness. I can relive the energy of someone’s first touch, a shared chemical moment. Oh, how about the sheer panic of not having enough money to pass through a tool? Yep, I can do that one too. Drives. Me. Crazy.

Today was no exception.

I wish I could recall without the stress of feeling. Like watching a show without sound. Oh, that would be lovely.

Are we all like that?

By way of not wanting to be weird, I hope so.

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