I am a lonely soap bubble
I'm drinking again but I didn't smoke tonight. Really, I just couldn't walk away from the thought of that bourbon cocktail I made the other night. Next time I go to the place that has a good lemonade, I'm adding bourbon. I know, it's probably sacrilege (you'll never believe how much wine I spit out when I lived near enough to Napa for great wine to be a foregone conclusion).
But tonight, I just wanted to wind down and chill. I've got some sort of Rainy Nights in Shibuya lofi hip-hop beats playlist on and I'm vibing. (If Apple changes that to Viking one more time, I'm going to leave it.) Still, there is sadness that I want to write about but I'll be honest, I'm afraid. It's an open wound that you love to poke because it hurts so good, but you're gonna be about the poking in an hour when that shit STILL hurts (and now it's just annoying).
Maybe this is what they talk about/refer to when they say that you shouldn't ever avoid talking about your deceased person. Say their name, tell the stories, share the memories. But like, that's it, fam. I have a handful of memories that are clear. I'm sure there's more locked in my head that just have to be knocked free by someone else sharing a story or by seeing a picture. Surely I'm not the only one who carries around my sadness like this. I know I'm not, I get it. It is easy to stop the talking, though, because to do so reminds you of the hurt and the person you no longer have. And even though we're all bound together by these shittiest of ropes, we sort of exist alone in our bubbles until we bounce off of someone else and then we two/three/four/seven/all join together in our shared experience - until we pull apart.
The memories I have (because that's what has been bothering me for the last couple of days) are so few it seems like they can fit in my pocket. They've been smoothed over by time, worn down so that they shine amongst the rest of the detritus, but they are no longer unique the way that they had been. I wish I had more to examine. I've stared so hard at these five or six that I'm sort of over it. The ones I can't let go of are from the week I spent with him. I wish I would have touched him more, made him laugh, talked. Sat and committed him to memory. I didn't and that will be a lifelong regret. I can't tell anyone in a way that really drives home what I truly mean. Everyone rushes to my defense, to tell me that none of us ever really know when will be the end, and so we all feel like this in one way or another. That is true, sure, but it doesn't really scratch the surface of my regret.
At some point, I expect I have to stop crying. Don't I? In a lot of ways, it feels like I've cried myself out. There are times when I think I'd like to cry myself hoarse and dry, waking up the next day still wrung out, but I'm not sure I'll reach that questionable pinnacle again any time soon. Which is fine, really.
I guess this is a PSA to advice everyone to take the pictures and make the memories, especially when you don't want to. You'll never know when they'll be your favorite.