wrote this on facebook last night for some odd reason
polymorphic
i've been leaving myself little notes of things to do. i find them weeks or months later, tucked in the strangest of places; between pages of books that i don't remember ever opening, rolled into tubes and nestled next to my pens, folded into tiny hard squares in a half-eaten box of crackers. i like to read what the i in the past has written, to see if my handwriting has changed, the style of my writing, clues as to when the list was made. i am disconnected from that person in the past, who looks and smells like me, who frowns as she writes the list, thinking about getting it done; biting on the inside of her mouth, judging how important each item is. i know her intimately, and yet she is still a stranger, because she thinks in ways that are foreign to me. i have forgotten what it was to live those moments, to write the list, to accomplish or put aside the goals i had created.
yesterday i stood outside and watched the snow falling on cars, the sidewalk darkening with damp. it's perpetually astonishing to me to see snow fall- one constant, at least, with my past selves- the flakes closer to me swift and fat, the further floating softly like feathers. i was thinking about remembering childhood- the kind of memories that are so disassociated with my current self that there is no emotion trailing them, only images and flashes of sound. stepping on a Lego in our old house in Farmington Hills, getting blood on the carpet, mom's face pitying. my best friend David walking away from me with his boy friends, laughing. the recurring dream i had for years about a T. Rex staring in my bedroom window. putting streamers on my bike with my sister for the neighborhood parade.
i don't know who that person was, i don't know what happened inside of her head, i don't understand her existence. i feel like i am a different person, everyday, who wakes up new inside a nest of previous shedded selves, their cooling bodies lying next to me, feeding me warmth, waiting to be rediscovered or revived. i wish they would be quiet. to reinhabit them is fading and temporary, like becoming a ghost, nothing is real and everything is far-off.
i find myself writing this note and looking back at the beginning. it is itself like a list that i've left for my future self to find and recreate and wonder. these words i've arranged in a way that is meant to be meaningful to myself now seem foreign. there is too much flux, the only constant. for someone who has always been proud of being adaptable i am falling apart rather quickly.
i've been leaving myself little notes of things to do. i find them weeks or months later, tucked in the strangest of places; between pages of books that i don't remember ever opening, rolled into tubes and nestled next to my pens, folded into tiny hard squares in a half-eaten box of crackers. i like to read what the i in the past has written, to see if my handwriting has changed, the style of my writing, clues as to when the list was made. i am disconnected from that person in the past, who looks and smells like me, who frowns as she writes the list, thinking about getting it done; biting on the inside of her mouth, judging how important each item is. i know her intimately, and yet she is still a stranger, because she thinks in ways that are foreign to me. i have forgotten what it was to live those moments, to write the list, to accomplish or put aside the goals i had created.
yesterday i stood outside and watched the snow falling on cars, the sidewalk darkening with damp. it's perpetually astonishing to me to see snow fall- one constant, at least, with my past selves- the flakes closer to me swift and fat, the further floating softly like feathers. i was thinking about remembering childhood- the kind of memories that are so disassociated with my current self that there is no emotion trailing them, only images and flashes of sound. stepping on a Lego in our old house in Farmington Hills, getting blood on the carpet, mom's face pitying. my best friend David walking away from me with his boy friends, laughing. the recurring dream i had for years about a T. Rex staring in my bedroom window. putting streamers on my bike with my sister for the neighborhood parade.
i don't know who that person was, i don't know what happened inside of her head, i don't understand her existence. i feel like i am a different person, everyday, who wakes up new inside a nest of previous shedded selves, their cooling bodies lying next to me, feeding me warmth, waiting to be rediscovered or revived. i wish they would be quiet. to reinhabit them is fading and temporary, like becoming a ghost, nothing is real and everything is far-off.
i find myself writing this note and looking back at the beginning. it is itself like a list that i've left for my future self to find and recreate and wonder. these words i've arranged in a way that is meant to be meaningful to myself now seem foreign. there is too much flux, the only constant. for someone who has always been proud of being adaptable i am falling apart rather quickly.