Impulsive
I wonder what I’m going to look like when I get old. Sometimes I like to look at photographs of old people, imagine what their sex lives are like, wonder if they have sex anymore? Sometimes I imagine what they did when they were young. Like, I imagine they did some crazy stuff that nobody knows about, but that they always keep with them in case someone asks. Or maybe, even if asked, they keep it with them. So that only they will know. Lovers—people who are in love with each other—are like that sometimes, I think. They keep things to themselves, as a couple, that only they will know. I guess that’s what makes love special. Is that when one of them disappears, the other one keeps the secret. And when they’re both gone, nothing is remembered.
When I think about that, about how some things about ourselves will never be known by people other than ourselves, I start to wonder. Why are we here? Why am I here? I see people on the bus—all of them are important. But why do I only want to be with some of them? Or maybe, actually, only a few of them? Someday those people on the bus or in the park or that I pass on the street will disappear. And I will have only seen them for a few seconds. It’s strange. Our lives came together for a few seconds—and neither of us seemed to even noticed it.
When I see a person I want to get close to I say to myself, “I like the way their body moves.” I listen to them talk, say to myself, “I like the sound of their voice, what they say.” If I’m fortunate, we agree to meet somewhere. During those rare instances, we stay up late, talk for hours, surprise each other. Then we stare at each other—and strange things happen. Wonderful things. Sometimes memorable things. It’s during those moments that life becomes this amazing thing again. Full of hope and possibility and confidence and a future.
But then sometimes people disappear. They just go away, never came back. It’s sad. Mysterious. When I think about them, I wonder what their life will be like ten years from now? Or thirty years from now? Wonder if we’ll ever see each other again? Wonder what we’ll remember when we get old? Wonder if we’ll remember what we did together when we were so much younger? Wonder how we’ll remember each other? Or if we will at all? Wonder how much of our time together will be forgotten? And what becomes of that time? Where does it go? Where does forgotten time go? And what does it do, float out there somewhere in space? Disperses, maybe, like molecules? All these molecules. But, if forgotten time is like molecules that means it goes somewhere, does something. I like that.
I probably won’t be able to remember anything after I die. But, if I could remember one thing, I’d want to remember us and the things we did together. It’s simple, really. All these molecules bursting, making every moment we lived together atomic.
1 year ago - read more...
