I really need to get a move on. Preparing is tiring, for sure, but waiting is a lot more exhausting.
Too many first steps. Need to start running.
I used to have compilations of tv shows from America sent to me when I was little. Kinda like cartoon mix tapes in beta max form. It had some Mickey Mouse, a few episodes of Adam West’s Batman, a couple of Police Academy episodes (the cartoon kind), and a few other things I can’t recall at the moment. I just heard the Police Academy theme song just a few moments ago and I had a flashback of me in pajamas sitting on the floor, playing that tape on an tiny old crt tv and a banged-up betamax player while eating a popsicle made out of frozen kool-aid.
It was the closest thing I had to a “stateside” life back then. More importantly, it was what my dad could afford to give me instead of him being around, a taste of the American Dream. Such were the trade-offs in my life at 5 years old.
I may have to move on sometime soon. Most days, it feels like I’m stuck in the mud without my mud tyres on. Revving only means more thrashing and a bunch of pointless mudslinging - no result, no progress.
I may need to wait until a stranger passes by and gives me a bit of a push to get me going, and just maybe, I could take that person along for the ride.
It’s sad how something as simple as a sentence can bring back memories of a feeling long gone and never to come back. Amazing though how these faded wraiths conjure tiny slivers of magic —- remembrances of a scent, a tune, a 5-second visual, and each one burning deep into my heart like sado-masochistic cigarette burns.
Moments I had almost forgotten kept getting prompted by songs you and I have listened to together. We were pretty happy - you in your usual life-embracing style and me in my normal uptight-but-trying-to-loosen-up kind of way. It wasn’t just the music we were sharing then, but also a predicament - life was mundane and shackled at the neck miles away from where we were, and we were both headbanging and spaz-dancing our way out of the cold iron.
You’ve gone ahead and found your way out while I’ve resigned myself to domestic, suburban un-bliss. Life is fair only to those who gnaw harder than the rest, but there you are still sporting those perfectly crooked teeth of yours, like you only chewed on soft candy. Bless your soul, because you’ve earned it.
Working on it, working on it.
I thought about your crooked teeth and I decided to write about them. There was this time when you said, “I’m cold” and all I could think of was to give you my share of the blanket. You already had one on you but I felt like I needed to give you a bit more, just to sure. That was pretty dense of me, in hindsight. But yeah, your teeth - they tell me how I’m so much like you and that’s the reason why I always have an insatiable urge to please you. There’s a bit more to this, but we can leave it to when I start writing about what your other body parts remind me of.
Reading you took me to a lonely place again. Only a few words in and the feeling came rushing back. I have false memories of us in those two giant beds - things I would’ve done if I had forgotten the value of respect. That’s our story; we are hopeful, fake memories and forever fresh, deep-cutting feelings.