22. Memento
He’s sprawled out across the bed, one hundred and sixty something pounds of scrawny stretched out over rumpled snow white hotel sheets, and you could almost trick yourself into believing he’s at peace with himself. Hugging a pillow against the little bit of dark scruff on his chin.
And my body, or my mind, it sort of sighs, this wistful strange little sigh, this little voice in the back of my ribs that sort of frightens me, that reminds me that if I'm someone who gives meaning to every moments, every seconds, every breathe I experience, then what meaning do I designate to this? Can’t say it doesn’t mean anything, because it means enough to give me pause. And when you have a bad habit of over-thinking everything, well, a pause is a lifetime, isn’t it?
Do my makeup, spill a little bit of loose powder on my chair, but who cares. We don’t own these things. We don’t own anything in this room. We don't own the bed. Not the sofa. Not our emotions. So we don’t have to take responsibility for any of this mess.
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