Reclamation
People can define eras of your life, periods of time in which they existed as a part of your everyday, and then the long-since when they serve only as bookmarks, relegated to human notes in the vast journals of days.
I wonder how many others are followed by the act of existential expulsion? How many people actively think, "I choose to exist sans another," and remove them?
Like the small words we continually use versus the sesquipedalian lyrics we occasionally recall and drop into practice for the sole purpose of remembering their existence, it lends a greater importance to the people remembered,
The people we still care about.
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It's alright though. I've never met a person who wasn't a mere bookmark to somebody else somewhere.
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I fell ill and in the middle of my performance last weekend my throat reached out to strangle itself and I forced air through infection and kept going, my voice growing harsh like the character I portrayed, his pleas for understanding cold and grave.
We performed McCarthy's The Sunset Limited, just a small group of classmates and I, and Dustin, our instructor, and Josh and Megan and a few other friends came too. I played White.
I have recovered, but I think I lost my higher chords; I can no longer do a Mickey Mouse impression.
The days have been fair, but tense, waters icy with trepidation. In the Summer I begin sending out material.
I remember when so many people were alive. I'm sick of tarnishing my world with the imperfect. The "Used to"'s and persistent past tenses that no longer apply.
Some stains get wiped off the windshield after a hard enough rain.
-Turns out you don't actually need a reason for anything.