Marking Time
The one doesn't cause the other, but it's not really a coincidence that Matt and I thought of our anniversary as different days, and are fairly laid-back in our observing of it. When I was in college, a day only ended when I went to sleep; if I pulled an all-nighter, so be it, as far as I cared this particular day was lasting forty hours or so. To me, our anniversary is September 24th. Matt actually respects clock and calendar (to a certain extent), and initially claimed our anniversary was the 25th. What he doesn't really have is a great memory, and over time he came to remember our opinions as reversed, of course. XD
So it doesn't matter. We go and get a nice dinner on the 24th, or the 25th if that's easier, or during the closest weekend if neither day is any good. And for myself, I keep my milestones on loose leashes, reeling them in if curiosity strikes me as to when I did this or that. My dates are scattered across emails, paper journals, two livejournals and an ancient open diary from high school, not to mention various memorable stories with their embedded clues.
But beside my cavalierness grows a newer desire for rigor. I'm certain of Matthew, so I don't need all the little details and trappings, but I am entirely uncertain of other things. And if I can't see a good ending for myself, can I still make one?
One year; two. Fourteen months. A year and a half. One year, three months. Seven months wasted. Ten and counting. I know there isn't any formula for it, there isn't any anticipating, but I feel like I have the patterns, like I could predict how fast the time winds down, how much is left to me. My eyes are open and I see the fallacy, but I may fall in anyway. May already be falling.
---
forgotten
I've forgotten a bit of my old balance, my old calm. Perhaps it was never there, perhaps I was only alright when nothing was at stake. Instinctively I knew it, and I threw down another wager. Now I am waiting to see how I lose.
So it doesn't matter. We go and get a nice dinner on the 24th, or the 25th if that's easier, or during the closest weekend if neither day is any good. And for myself, I keep my milestones on loose leashes, reeling them in if curiosity strikes me as to when I did this or that. My dates are scattered across emails, paper journals, two livejournals and an ancient open diary from high school, not to mention various memorable stories with their embedded clues.
But beside my cavalierness grows a newer desire for rigor. I'm certain of Matthew, so I don't need all the little details and trappings, but I am entirely uncertain of other things. And if I can't see a good ending for myself, can I still make one?
One year; two. Fourteen months. A year and a half. One year, three months. Seven months wasted. Ten and counting. I know there isn't any formula for it, there isn't any anticipating, but I feel like I have the patterns, like I could predict how fast the time winds down, how much is left to me. My eyes are open and I see the fallacy, but I may fall in anyway. May already be falling.
---
forgotten
I've forgotten a bit of my old balance, my old calm. Perhaps it was never there, perhaps I was only alright when nothing was at stake. Instinctively I knew it, and I threw down another wager. Now I am waiting to see how I lose.