Found this old video of back when I lived on Island Park in a 16th floor apartment, with Trolley and another person who shall remain unnamed.
Trolley looks so young! It’s not his face, just his hair that does it. And remember when I couldn’t stop listening to that AFI album? Seems like so long ago. I guess you’d only remember if you’ve been reading since 2004/2005, when we did stuff like this.
I wonder if I’m still too young to feel nostalgic. It seems like the only people who reminisce are those who are much older than me, but I already get nostalgic about my university days, when things were relaxed, I could sleep in, or skip class, and I didn’t have a mortgage to worry about.
I seem to be writing about only one thing lately.
In the day, there are rushes of contentment amidst moments of clarity. Little things, like driving on the highway, feeling the wind ruffle my hair. Waking up to the fresh, cool morning air that signals the oncoming autumn. It all feels great, and for a moment, I can think of nothing else but how wonderful it all is.
The night is another story. The sky draws it’s curtains, leaving me with only haunting memories that turn vivid when the sun no longer washes them out. The darkness is only a reminder of the void she once filled with the very vibrancy of her soul, and without her presence to intoxicate me, I’m left feeling numb.
Jesus christ, I could go on and on.
I wonder why anyone would read all these ramblings about love and loss. Isn’t it just the same shit over and over again? But love is the only thing I do well. Love is the only thing I know, and I can only write that which I know.
In time, I’ll have just as much to say in celebration, but for now, I need to get everything else out of my system, stoking the fires of grief until I run out of fuel.
Sometimes, I write these entries in my head over several days, but when it comes to getting them on the screen, I can’t. Not because I don’t feel like it, but because the words come out with such difficulty.
So I sit in my room with the lights off, hoping for something to give me courage, something to move my mute fingers.
Instead, I procrastinate. I buy myself time by playing a game on my iPhone, or surfing the net. It’s like I’m stalling, I’m building up for a moment that’s no more important than any other, like a nervous schoolboy trying to ask his crush to the prom; picking up the phone, dialing a number, and hanging up again.
Maybe if I bury it after a bunch of inconsequential thoughts — like how it’s hard for me to write about something — then people will get bored and won’t bother reading the rest. I try to convince myself that everything will be forgotten much quicker than it took for me to write this. Nothing works, when all I’m trying to say is that every time I listen to Letter Read by Rachael Yamagata, I imagine she’s listening to the same thing at the same time.
So sometimes, you just have to say fuck it and write it anyway, even if you’re afraid and you can’t breathe, and put it out of your head that you’re left vulnerable, that anyone could read it, that people know something that you probably shouldn’t share, that you’re still thinking about her when everyone is telling you not to, because none of it matters when it’s the truth, and telling the truth is what makes you you.
Sometimes, my sarcastic humour is so dry and subtle that people who don’t know me very well think I’m being serious. I try to say things that are so ridiculous they can only be taken as a joke, but it doesn’t always work. Example:
Yesterday, Jairus made pulled pork sandwiches (took him 8 hours!) that smelled soooo good they made me hungry, even though I had just eaten a huge dinner. As we were watching A Jihad For Love (about the coexistence of homosexuality and Islam), Jesse said, “Too bad these Muslims wouldn’t be able to enjoy this delicious pulled pork sandwich”. I said, “Oh, cause it’s pulled”, in a tone like I had just realized something, but what I thought was a joking manner. Everyone turned their heads at me, Ian said, “Cause it’s pork, yeah”, and he lingered on that yeah really slowly, like he was embarrassed for me, then everyone turned back to the TV. I’m pretty sure they all think I’m an idiot now, and that I thought Muslims have something against animals when they’re slow-cooked in vinegar sauce.