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
the feeling of freedom
up late, writing,
to one song, on repeat
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,
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,
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.
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.