a fart of exaggerated explications of real life on film.
so many moments build up until the images pop fireworks off in my brain and i burst like technicolor images rewinding on a film reel. this is when i feel like an emotional mess. squatting, knees making imprints in the sand, i talk to a distant friend about dirty laundry and the future and how the two are probably more similar than most think. only i say that to myself in my head, and not out loud to him. when i hang up, i sigh because the sun setting on the water is a postcard. the night before, a buzz from two glasses of pinot noir finds me talking loosely to my mother in a small-town restaurant, sitting parallel to the salt of new england's shoreline, where curtains swing into paisley hammocks and robust old ladies bring us chowder. i can't remember the last time i've felt this overwhelming calmness. fast forward two hours and three empty wine bottles and i know why i'll never be truly lonely. there is such comfort in passionate discussion. a day or two later, i sit close underneath a tattered fleece blanket, touching the beat of your heart with my fingers, screaming joy inside because i'm not a great singer but i need to say something soon. and then, i sit on burning plastic pool chairs, squinting at glossy magazine font but thinking about the way the sun reflects against the chlorinated water and makes it look sharp. you ask me a question and i ponder my answer long enough to be distracted by all that is beautiful in you. so many moments and i'm far too touched, too empathetic, too emotional to not allow them to catch up with me one way or the other.