My memories keep me warm until I remember they’re just memories.
I wrote that in the summer. First I was defiant, then tired, then reminiscent, but mostly I was sad. Fall came. November passed. It’s winter now.
And so it goes.
Sometimes I wonder what the sheer durability of emotion says about humanity. And whether this durability is useful at all. I wonder whether it’s a reflection of openness or brokenness or maybe just some inability to fit into social narratives. It all just seems so–so strange sometimes, I guess.
I don’t really get it. I don’t get a lot of things, but then, on the other hand, sometimes I do. I guess I don’t get things like this the way I did when I was nine and wrote about it in all my diaries. Talked about it like I was an expert, god, I was drowning in it all. I didn’t believe there were people like adult-me who couldn’t comprehend this, and I eyed those people skeptically. Now I know there are rah-rah identity politic groups that champion these experiences, and while it’s relieving, I can’t tell if it’s just another label to cozy up to. Is it identity, brokenness, problematic or necessary?
It’s hard to imagine that I used to stay up late for the sake of it. I’d stay up late to talk to people, stay up late to listen to them. Stay up late to scour the Internet for articles I’d reread not once or twice but maybe eight dozen times. At night I’ll want explanations, revelations, soul-baring-heart-revealing confessions. When I revisit certain late-night memories in my mind, there’s an odd buttery hazy glow that envelops them, and maybe that’s what I would get lost in during the summertime.