You know, if you look close enough, sometimes you’ll find such twisted thoughts that it takes too much effort to unwind it.
The title contains a banned combination of words, because it doesn’t change anything, or only accentuates our supposed endings.
Can’t remember the last time someone said those words. Probably because it’s better to forget about those things.
It’s funny to miss people even when they’re around. Like you aren’t sure who they are anymore. Maybe one could feel selfish and stupid for wanting a version of someone, rather than accepting what’s in front of you. Sometimes you could miss an old version of yourself too, or who you were however long ago.
Fundamentally those who chant the above think others can stop the pain. But it’s hard to believe anyone could stop the pain other than yourself. After enough time.
The autumn campus sometimes serves as a portal: a place to let go. A churn of the student body – one can’t hear the heartfelt goodbyes amongst the excited chatter of those now entering.
When you have a deep hug with someone, you get a dose of oxytocin. Are there adverse effects of not getting such doses anymore? It’s better if you never had them in the first place: the best bet is to avoid any contact.
Surely one can fire up an email, text, maybe a phone call – surely one can. But the fact is that you’re there, and they’re far away, and they’ll remain after the conversation ends. The memorabilia staring in the bookshelf remains all the same, and you’ll have to guard yourself for other uncomfortable memory flares.
It’s been awhile since cleaning up all the shoes. That’s one perk of being a little slow to clean: all the wrought pairs left give this illusion of a house still existing. If a set of shoes are considered a visitor’s entrance fee, then maybe wandering phantoms take advantage of the discarded spares pending their landfill exit.
What is one supposed to do with all of these photos? If it’s painful to look at them or delete them, then one ought to wonder why they managed to take these photos at all. Maybe through a masochist’s appraisal one could find some worth. Maybe it was all practice for whatever comes next.
Here are all the games we used to play. Now they’re hard to open and with a layer of dust since. Looking through the memory card data, one can ascertain the last time we played together. A virtual carving – though there’s no way to feel the bumps or smoothing. One can only wait until it’s corrupted, so there’s no more guilt in preserving things. Even if your fingerprints still remain.
One can dream up a whole village and architecture suitable for the next age. But there’s no one to inhabit it. Maybe it’s better that way.