The senseless

It’s the little things
But sometimes also naturally, the big things
Or the non-existent things
Nonsense yet full of sense
Oh dear, what an awful mess we’ve made.

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To grow young

“And as time passes, you forget.”

The silence of words just spoken filled the empty spaces of the room we sat in. I had to let it sink in. I didn’t want to forget yet I didn’t want to remember either. The painstaking duality played evil tricks on my mind constantly, although I have to admit, the forgetting had the upper hand as I grew older. Perhaps it was purely physical, a bodily phenomenon, Alzheimer’s light or whatever they called it. To compensate, my mind actively sought out memories and pushed me in certain directions. But I did forget and I had forgotten, especially the big things. The little things were harder. All of sudden, in the middle of a phone conversation on a busy street, the passing of a taxi would cause the greatest flashback. I would abruptly drop my phone and stand completely still, outsiders probably wondering what the hell I was doing, not to mention the person on the other line. It was those moments, that flock of memories, which never seemed to be forgotten.

I believe it’s called the psychophysiology of trauma. The body remembers. It’s quite fascinating. And so, even though my memory might be failing me as time passes, my body holds the memories, which in a sense, however tragic, is comforting.

“Yes, you forget,” I replied, smiling, knowing that to me, you’ll always be here, somehow, somewhere, no matter how old I grow.

From the heart

“It’s okay to be sad,” I said, lightly resting my hand on her fragile shoulder.
She looked at me with puzzled eyes. I repeated my phrase. Her eyes seemed even more perplexed.
“You can cry, you know.” Maybe a reformulation, a concretization would help her understand what I meant. I knew sorrow had a funny way of clouding one’s comprehension.

Minutes passed by and I was debating on whether she had actually understood anything at all. Maybe her hearing was faulty. Just as I was about to repeat my words she suddenly took a deep breath. The movement of her body startled me, as she had stood coldly statuesque the past hour. With dampened tempo and faint crescendo, she finally replied.
“I’m not sure I know how.”

To W

The thing which pained me the most was her honest reflection of her incapability to love. How she envied the ones who could feel, be it heartache or heartbeat. Her words stuck with me. Here I was in the middle of my heartbreak, feeling each stab, and there she was, feeling nothing, not even a pinch. I wondered what was worse. We stood separately, each representing a half of better to have loved and lost than to never having loved at all.
When put in context, my heartache became pitiful and petty. I had loved and I had lost. She had never loved yet she had lost it all. I wanted to try to write down some words of comfort for her but I don’t know if I can. I’m convinced that she will learn how to love one day. And I hope the universe compensates her by never having her lose anyone ever again.