Lackidasical Cogitations leading to enlightenment.

I don’t remember losing any of my teeth, or learning how to ride a bike. I don’t know what theme my seventh birthday party was. I remember when my best friend’s little brother was hit by a car. He died the same day even though they sent a helicopter. My best friend called me and I told her that she shouldn’t joke like that but she wasn’t joking. I don’t remember how old we were. Third grade, maybe. The last time I ever saw him he was jumping on the couch telling me how excited he was to go to the first grade. I don’t remember my first day of school.

I remember the first time I learned about the word “fuck.” I think his name was Damon, in the lunch room. He spelled it out for me. He said, “If you’re so smart, what does F-U-C-K spell?” I said, “Fuck?” I thought it was a silly word; it sounded like the sound a chicken makes, “cluck.” I kept saying it over and over again and the kids called the principal and the principal called my mom. I remember the principal. She always carried around a tiny poodle. I don’t remember what colour it was. Brown? Black? Maybe it was white.

28/01/2011.Patching up
When I am upset I drink jasmine tea because it’s expensive and it makes me feel like a princess, like the way he used to make me feel. I put five little jasmine balls in a cup and wonder how they tied them so tight and I pour boiling water over them and watch them in my cup for what feels like an hour. I watch them blossom and grow so big, like they’re alive and they grow and make a garden in the bottom of my cup. When they look like they are finished opening up and I get ready to take them out and pour them in the sink, they twitch and pop and surprise me and I stay and watch for longer.

I read. When I’m upset and I don’t want to talk to anyone because I know that nothing can make this better, I read. I read because real life is too fucked up to deal with and when I read it goes away and I’m living someone else’s story. I’m living the story of a hispanic girl in the slums of a big city, or the story of a princess who is rescued by her true love and nothing can stop them from being together and they never ever get sick of each other or have real life problems like STD’s or worrying about “rushing” things.

I have to tell myself it is not real. It is a dream. I wake up and bury my face into my pillow. This is much too familiar. I want to sleep forever and make this dream my life. In my dream he tells me he’s sorry. He tells me he wants to be with me again forever and ever. He tells me he loves me. His smile makes my body explode into a million tiny butterflies. I’m in class and I look up to the door. He’s leaning his shoulder against the frame, one foot crossed in front of the other with that lip-bite/smile. My professor takes one split-second glance toward the door then continues with her lesson. He’s holding a single red rose. His eyes say, “Everything is okay.”

When I have these dreams my real life gets sucked into a black hole.

01/02/2011.Physically escaping is not mentally escaping
My heart is a rat. It’s treating my insides like the cage it was forced into. It climbs up and down my ribs. I force it down as the plane’s wheels lose contact with the ground that is my home.
The people sitting next to me are a couple, she sleeps on his shoulder.
I miss his shoulder.
The deteriorating old man seated across the aisle is watching a boxing match on the little screen built into the back of the seat. He was watching The X-Games for a while. I have designated him as my favourite stranger of the day. The top of a red pack of Marlboro cigarettes is visible in his breast pocket. Every so often he will turn and smile at me, his face changes into a mass of deep canyon-like crevasses and his teeth are oyster shells, dipped into a vat of sulfur. Nevertheless there was something pleasant about him, something reassuring. I feel safe and comforted. I suddenly have the urge to follow him to wherever he’s going. I want to hold his hand and try on the pretty things that he will buy me when we get there. The sleeping woman next to me shifts so that her stiletto presses into the side of my foot. One of the in-flight magazines in my pouch is missing a front cover. Fortunately there were no children in the seats behind me, I tend to have that kind of bad luck on airplanes. The rest of the flight smells like burned coffee.

So what…

…if i don’t know what I’m doing? I’m happy.
I’m happy because no matter where I end up in my life, no matter what I become, I will have no enjoyment or passion in whatever I pursue if not for my love. For the love I have in myself which I carry with me everywhere I go. Even if I went to another universe I would not be able to escape myself, therefore I will always have love as long as I always truly love myself. I like where this English thing is taking me. Maybe I should study library sciences… I could be a librarian! I could even be an art teacher!
My friends and my family are so important to me that even if I die alone with a hedgehog named Maximillion, as long as I have those friends, I will still die thinking that my life was beautiful.
I will die blissfully as long as I love always.

1/31/2012. Johnny’s
I sit in a curled little ball on the edge of the futon, bellowing and giggling with Dan and Andrew watching Robyn and Brad tackle each other playfully while yelling out witty comebacks to each other. I think about how elated I am at that moment. I am genuinely happy. All of that love and great energy was filling that room, and I was swimming in it. Just being there. I didn’t become envious of the couple’s love for each other, I was just happy. I loved being there. This is what true love is. It’s the love you feel for your closest friend(s) and for your family. It is the happiness that they share with you. It is rare to find. That is why it should never be taken lightly. Love is not an externally obtainable object. You already have love, it is in yourself, you just need to recognize it and genuinely enjoy it before you can truly feel it. When you do feel it, you will never forget it.


No comments yet, why not leave one of your own?

Leave a Comment or Share Your Story

Please Sign In. Only community members can comment.

SMITH Magazine

SMITH Magazine is a home for storytelling.
We believe everyone has a story, and everyone
should have a place to tell it.
We're the creators and home of the
Six-Word Memoir® project.