I find it so fascinating how certain places or objects can never again just be a place or an object. How we have the ability to irreversibly lace ideas with memories, with feeling. A time, a place, a number, a smell, a sight, a song, a voice, a texture. A permanent, custom imprint that the universe leaves on us.
Calvin Klein cologne, veiling the musk of cigarettes: My dad’s awkward but well-meaning annual embrace
Rays of the sun caressing my back: lazy San Diego summers that benchmark the better part of my youth
The 605 Freeway: high school days
The 5 Freeway: college years
The salty dampness of every pillowcase I’ve ever owned: lonely nights, broken hearts, the unending whirlwind of “could’ve been”s
Scribbles in the margins of books: his beautiful mind
Gentle strums of the C chord: his beautiful fingers
Paris, France: the last few times I had him to myself
Cinnamon frosting: my best friend’s comfort
Sweat and alcohol soaked oxygen clawing its way down my throat: being who I think I should be, not who I am
How I Met Your Mother: How We Fell In Love
Sam Smith’s Voice: How We Fell Out
It seems that as time goes on, things that are just, plainly, things, diminish, and we are increasingly blessed with or haunted by traces of our past.
Maybe this is why I want to run away. Maybe this is why I want to start fresh, why “renewal” has been the theme I gravitate toward as of late, why being in a place where everything is familiar seems to suffocate me. Everything means something.
But deep down I know that leaving wouldn’t anything. Because I’m trying to get away from you.
My shaky hands: You.
My toothless smile: You.
My aching shoulders: You
My trembling voice: You.
The air in my lungs, the blood in my veins, the ghostsly fingerprints on every square milimeter of my skin..: You.
I’m reminded of you constantly, continually, not because of my surroundings. But because you are in me.
So how do I get away from myself?