I found this little rambling in a notebook I thought I had lost a long time ago. I wrote this close to three years ago, long before I had read anything of worth. Enjoy
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It’s a maddened, scribbled note book sense of self, a draft that only you can read. And even then you know only in an ambiguous sense that it is right that you feel like this. Wrong that someone else doesn’t. The pull on the strings is still tangible, its still there indestructible as ever even after their holds on the other end long since decayed. Sounds, sights and smells, people and places tug against the strings in the strangest of places. A weakness in your knee a sharp pain under the shoulder blade where her head once rested as you slept recovering, before you had lost it. That was before it was really gone.
In your mind she still smells like August. She’s warm and sunny glistening with sun tan lotion, back lit by the high summer sun. The warm wind brings the smell of fresh cut grass and salt marsh a scent most easily identifiable with that time of your youth. The years you had with her. This is when you had it and you took it all for granted.
Out into the night you step. Cold winds come over the harbor this time of year playing with the two days of stubble you’ve just learned to ignore. Your hair is thinner now and skin more weathered. The smell of the ocean makes your heart sink. The stings pull taught and make you wince with the sharp pain. Shaking hands unscrew the flask and a long pull drives the memories back and eases the tension. This is when you lost it.
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I couldn't tell you for the life of me now what this is about, I feel incredibly detached from it.
Anyhow, thanks for reading.
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