Occasionally when I’m feeling uninspired, I will peruse my drafted posts to see if there is anything worthwhile that I had abandoned. Sometimes, by giving the subject matter time, I end up writing my favorite pieces by doing this.
I found this short essay dated back to June of this year. I didn’t post it simply because I didn’t view it as worth sharing. It was a throwaway. Reminiscent of a schoolgirl diary entry that didn’t hold much value.
However, for some reason, I just couldn’t delete it.
When is it that you have realized you’ve moved on?
Is it when you run into that person and saying hello holds the same indifference towards an acquaintance on the street?
Or is it when you meet someone new who reminds you what it should feel like?
Maybe it’s when you realize that the person you cared for never really existed at all?
Or that they never cared about you.
Maybe it’s writing this post.
I asked myself to write this essay while the sentimentality was still active, but post it after I realized I had moved on. Unfortunately, against my wishes, the piece went unwritten for my subconscious did not want to confront an emotion it was quickly trying to move past. The feeling of losing what I finally thought was tangible.
My fear was that one day I’d wake to an empty notebook page with all the conviction and affection lost.
Now all I’m left with are a few sentences scribbled down in a notebook and the inability to recapture a sort of romanticism:
“Because I don’t want to forget that at one time, I inexplicably left passionate about someone.
I don’t want to forget the first time I realized I was thinking of nothing else other than you and the moment we were in. The night I kissed you before you ever finished your sentence about wanting to kiss me. The time we were riding in the elevator and I moved to step on the wrong floor and you pulled me back into your arms. Thinking I could stay in the that hotel bed for days. Waking and finding it difficult to pull my hand from your cheek. Studying each hair on your head. Remembering each wrinkle on your face. Shying my eyes away when I realized you were doing the same exact thing.”
But I will forget and all will be replaced. Others will come and go. Just another memory that holds minute sentimental value and the impossibility to write about posthumously.”
Like it is right now.
To wherever this ship may sail, you wrote to me on a mix tape.
The answer is: You shipwrecked it onto a pile of jagged rocks.
I waited for the ship to dislodge, and when it didn’t, I jumped and swam away.
I gave up wondering if you were still there, for every time I turned to look back, you veiled yourself in a thick fog.