We’re not gonna lie. The email attached to this glorious piece read a little something like this, “So I posted this on FB a while ago claiming I read it, but in reality I wrote it about a girl and was just too much of a puss to claim it as mine. But today is my 21st birthday and I’m kinda drunk so whatever. Here ya go. ” Mad props to this guy.

 

She was striking. She was poison. She was the ferocious whirlwind of discovery and chaos that threw me into the sky. She was serene. She was tenacious. She walked on sunbeams and had a voice that like the rain. She was gentle. She was mighty. She was relentless. She was selfish. She was the most wonderful individual. She smiled larger than the sky and made everything else seem insignificant.

She left.

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At some point one wakes and realizes that which they desire is out of reach,  a literal impossibility. This begins a period of mourning for the individual, as they weep for the deceased dream that can no longer be.

That has been my every morning for as long as I can remember. I was told by those with wisdom that the mourning period is temporary. However, I have grown to realize that the mourning period never actually ends, but rather the individual grows accustomed to the all consuming despair of failure.

Is it wrong of me to reject this? What makes my loss so significant,  so tangible and real that it may as well be the end?

I wake like everyone else. I bathe,  eat,  work, love, lose, laugh, and sleep like everyone else.

Her impact on my personal scope of reality was so grand that it knocked my mind out of orbit, and launched it into the black hole, the cosmic abyss of gravity and eternal imprisonment we call love.

I loved her. I love her. I love her more than myself, than life itself. I love her more than the combined love I have for everything else. I love my love for her. The way her endless brown hair cascaded off her shoulders. The way her eyes closed tightly when she laughed. The turn of her head when she talked to me. The crease of our intertwined hands. Her breath on my neck. I loved the way she seemed to turn into water as she moved throughout the room, flowing and gliding with determination, until she finally pooled into my arms. She was love. She is love.

If only she knew I existed. I am forgotten. An old toy cast aside, a worn book collecting dust on a shelf. A favorite pair of shoes,  entombed in a box under the bed. I am less then a memory,  more distant than eternity.

But that song. When that song plays for one instant,  I return. My mind graces me sweet relief. It transports me back to that evening, that humid summer night where it all ended and began. During this escape I am whole. The sadness and mourning is long gone, and there is nothing at all. Nothing but her.

Someday I will move on. This is what I have been told. However, for now, I shall leave this curse of a song playing. I will let that old record turn as many times as necessary.

All I can hope for is for her to take off my headphones and whisper into my ear-

“Joseph. Wake up. I am not a dream,  but I am a nightmare. You are free. ”

I’d like to be free. I just won’t let me.

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