The last piece I really wrote, I mean sat down and wrote, was this short story I’ve had bumping around in my head for a good two years. It was about me and a friend, a girl I was in love with, who was in love with me but was scared. That’s all the story was, but I decided to take it farther. See when I was a kid, when that whole unease of growing up was a thing, I used to wonder how much I really loved my parents. I was all full of morbid thoughts as a child. Someone once told me about titanic, and I would lucid dream that my house was sinking. I read a book that told me the world was going to end in 7 billion years, and because I couldn’t find the publishers page, I was worried that the book had been out long enough that maybe, that 7 billion years from now could be tomorrow. Once when my dad was upset I got scared and wondered if I’d cry at his funeral.
I remembered that. One time after I fought with my friend, the one I was in love with, I remembered that sickening thought. So I tried to write what I’d say. That was the mistake though, I wrote me. I wrote these scary things on a paper and made them permanent. That was the perspective I had, I had fear and love and death and anger all trying to resolve themselves and I had to push it away. That was two years ago. I wrote it again, last year. It was still me, it was still her, but I was focused on something different.
Regret. I kept that in mind. I wrote the whole piece focused on how much I would regret saying nothing. How much all of us regret saying nothing and that I became a we, and that we became an us and I was no longer I. It was just a word I was using.
I don’t know what people think of me. I don’t even know if my parents are happy with every decision I make or if they like how I’ve turned out so far. I don’t talk to them about things like the people I love or the reasons why I write. They could ask me, I’d tell them, but I don’t know if they’d actually get it. Much like I don’t believe for a second I’d know what they feel when they see me. I just know I, and sometimes I can know we and sometimes we can know us.
Sometimes I write music, and sometimes I record it, and sometimes I mean things that you never have heard.
This town was paper, parchment and leaves.
Your house was a memory.
Written in the breeze.
I carried it with me.
Stored in my lungs.
Until I woke beside her.
and it wasn’t enough.
I burnt all the paper.
It made a great pyre.
I tossed in the pictures.
They crinkled, expired.
Yet I carried it all with me.
Till’ I showered off the ash.
Washed clean of your promises.
I hope that it lasts.
Then one day we found writing on the walls.
Beneath the posters I hung to cover it all.
They reminded me. The memories are real, even if they aren’t written, or inhaled on a whim.
They’re still in the air.
You left them there, when you burned them by the sea.
Sure this town was paper, but she wont burn so easily.
[shameless paper towns reference, all hail John Green]