Walking Sockless Through Forgotten Memory Lanes

Diary of a 19-Year Old

I know. I’m very hard to talk to. I realise that.

I know. I said I was done with whining. I realise that.

I know. I will look at cable lines and just keep looking. I realise that.

I know. I’m holding on to some figment of my imagination. I realize that.

I know. I will hold this closer to me because it’s all I have left. I realise that.

I know. I will never completely let it sink in, because I’m scared. I realise that.

I know. I will stop doing all the things we did together, because it hurts. I realise that.

I know. I will hurt myself in so many ways because you aren’t here to stop me. I realise that.

I know. This seems to be all about me and my inability to handle this. I realise that.

I know. I come across as self-pitying, selfish, sentimental and just plain emo. I realise that.

But.

We know. That they will never know. That they will never understand. That they will search everyday for this. They realise that.

So let them laugh.  Because living is messy.  But I will run away to Venice some day. And you will be there waiting for me.

Question: Do they have internet where you are?

[Image: http://www.gracekadams.com/personal.html]

“It’s history. It's poetry.”

To the many memories and inside jokes that this brings back.

“I'm quite illiterate, but I read a lot...What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.”

One day.

[Poster by Evan Robertson.]

Janus

A ruined building- overgrown and decrepit, an air of neglect and sadness lingering everywhere.

She needs a place to rest from the harsh glare of the morning light. Her feet are ready to fall off. Her burden is dragging her down, making her tremble.

He lingers in an old forgotten crevice- a hole in the wall, whiling away his time till the world remembers. Suddenly, his head lifts up. He laughs- a cruel, sarcastic stereo.

A cold gust of wind blows through, the leaves fly up in miniature whirlwinds and in the distance, a door flies open.

She wakes up with a start. All she hears is the echo of his smug voice, “Your choice...”

[Image: Robert Doisneau, Untitled (no date).]