supermarket, away

Looking through old facebook photos. There’s something I enjoy about digital preservation, it’s all there, nostalgia at my fingertips. Analyzing my face to see whether it’s changed. Is it just that I’m thinner, or do I look different? The eyes, Alina said, lighter then, or at least, in that picture. No, then. 

How to explain this feeling, that life is fleeting, was and will be, and all I have are photos, poems, reminding me how things were, how I hoped the future would be, the future which is now, now. The songs I used to listen to, that take me back so quickly. I feel ancient, like I have ran a race with time, and now we sit, sipping lemonade on a porch, chuckling about the days when there was something to run towards. Like in Futurama, when Bender, the Professor, and Fry just sit there and watch eternity repeat until they find the perfect moment to do whatever they were trying to do. Fry and Leela. I don’t feel hopeless, no, there is plenty I want to run towards. Am running towards, furiously. Moments in a song that make me feel twelve, in Julia’s room. The smell of hairspray, the radio, wooden panelling. fuzzy orange carpet. laughter, uncontrolled. The pieces of me, spread across the pasts of many others, membranes, cellulose walls, I wonder how much these things mean to the people I share them with. As much, I hope. I am sure they do, but still, I want to know. To taste their ruminations, alongside my own. A new flavour, that’s all we can ask for, yes? No. Longing. Happiness, perhaps, happenstance. It’s all just luck. Not exactly. 

Look at a map of Canada. I’m all over the place. Big chunks left out, but still, not bad. 

Childhood. Never thought of it, until now. Until my twenties. Twenties. I’m tiny. Weenie. How young we always will be. Always are. 

I do not know how to communicate this feeling. 

Family, drops of water in the ocean,
meeting me rarely,

I am too busy,

a wave, seeking the sky.

in the dark, blue,

chutneys, tamil, a unlit lamp

one of those nights, 

staying up writing

began with a play

walking 

this song

the feeling of freedom

up late, writing,

to one song, on repeat

calves ache

I ran in winter boots. 

just read, just to share, just write

just to share

just to add some of myself into space

into the world

so I know, for certain,

I exist. 

A tweet, a status update. I am real, respond to me.

To touch. Touch people out on the street. They’ll hit you.

I just wanna remember what this is. 

The brevity of our interactions,

our affections, happiness.

it feels like a pinprick now,

those years,

on my skin,

amid all the caresses, bruises,

I cannot find a spot, or a mark,

but I close my eyes

and I feel it, somewhere. 

One pinprick,

on my whole body,

one pinprick in a whole lifetime,

and this pinprick takes up

my whole heart

the memories of all days. 

The beginnings of poetry. 

Is there life outside of this, stringing together words to match the rhythms of the heart,

words, motions, sounds, on stage

to match the rhythms of the heart. 

About Undecided Pseudonym

A woman who remembers enjoying writing.
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