Listen, and they will tell you. Listen, and you will hear the thoughts between the words, if you want to.
I have, lately, found myself slipping into music and getting just a little lost. (In a good way, in a good way..) Loving the rain again, as well, as though it is hydrating my soul, somehow, peculiar as that might sound. Even things we do not see inside ourselves dry up, now and then, lose the life they seeped into our days. They are not lost, though, just a little wasted - a little worn. I feel like the kind of soul drenching memories that get locked inside of music are perfect to bring them out again, to make you feel just a little more alive than you maybe deserve to.
There are some memories still so vivid that it seems like I will never lose them. I like this. I like the permanence it suggests my brain is capable of. You learn to appreciate this on a deeper level when new things don't register as they used to. When there are words that hang in your head, just out of reach, taunting you a little bit. It is hard to admit how much I have changed, hard to accept that there is this new version of myself.
I am seeing a therapist, I suppose just out of desire to learn how to live for myself again. Years tangled up in this sort of situation and anyone can forget themselves, I imagine. A part of me hates therapy, hates the straight out of a psych textbook lines that they feed you sometimes.
I don't know why, but perhaps because - what if? What if some day it all is lost and this is the only way I will have to know that this ever occurred? Here, then, read these, listen if you can, if you want to:
Cape Cod, many years ago. After months in the concrete and suffocating humidity of a Boston summer. Standing on the shore, watching the waves rolling and crashing in. I'd never really felt so close to the ocean before, not like that. I'll never forget the sound, the peace that settled over me. The sort of wind that only exists in these kinds of places. I loved it, and him. Some part of me will always be on that beach and I love this, I love my brain for it.
And then these rainy mornings, lately, these cool humid start of the day showers. I am always tripping on the road, half way to the bus in my very early school days. My little stockings wet, knees a little bruised. Feeling terribly embarrassed, and small, and sad. And I remember, despite the years, when he got off the bus and picked me up. Carried me on. He didn't get to live his full life, I know, he died some time between then and now, many years ago, really. I found out in the newspaper, an obituary. I'll never forget him. To me he will always be the boy who carried my sad little self onto the school bus that rainy morning.
I suppose that I am only rambling for myself and I am sorry for that. I haven't felt like writing in so long and now here I am, leaving it all here on this website that has meant so much to me for so long and I just can't, don't want to let it go.
You ought to listen to Gregory Alan Isakov, if you'd like to hear something sort of beautiful.