• A memory

    by  • September 23, 2013 • * Safe for Work *, Thinking of you • 2 Comments

    I remember one springish day, we were walking down your street towards the theater along the river and it was still chilly out. I remember I was kicking a rock down the road, I think we were holding hands, and we were talking philosophy; little things that made us happy, people who don’t know how to experience living, and childhood. You were telling little anecdotes of your childhood, like the time you hid from your mother in a store when you where like 12 and the store shut down, sounds exactly like something you would do. One story stuck with me though because i used to do it a lot too when I was young, you were telling me about one particular instance of a time when you tried to experience the epiphanic sensation of being the first person to ever experience something ever, in your story you were barefoot standing on the the edge on the sidewalk on the bridge with your toes curled over the sides, staring out over the water, and thinking about lions for some reason. I don’t know why you chose lions, it really could’ve been anything, but to you at the time lions probably seemed like the most far out idea, and one with the best chance to achieve firstness. So while you stared out over the water, barefoot thinking about lions you said that you’d though to yourself “I bet no one has ever stood on the edge of a bridge barefoot and thought about lions” and with the feeling that you’d experience another first you felt an accomplished sense of pride.

    It was a goal of yours to be the first one ever to do or think many things, and while someone preceding you very well might have stood on the edge of a bridge barefoot and thought of lions, the idea that it had incontestably been you made you feel important. And now here, lying in my bed at 2:07 in the morning, almost exactly 6 months since we stopped seeing each other, I wonder if anyone has ever missed anyone, much less you, this much before and whether it caused this much pain, but unlike you, I don’t feel accomplished or proud or important, all I feel is sad and an empty sort of hurt.

    2 Responses to A memory

    1. C
      September 23, 2013 at 8:27 pm

      This is sublime.

    2. Jen
      September 24, 2013 at 3:08 pm

      I really enjoyed reading this, it’s beautiful. I have similar weird stories I’ve talked about and I wish this was written for me, but I’m not this person. This person deserves to hear from you. Best of luck

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