Remember

How will i be remembered, and by who? I've been in love more times than i care to count. Which of them, i wonder, even think of me? I have a selective memory. But i don't get to choose the images. I'm still in love. I never knew there could be so many corridors in the heart to lose a part of myself in. If i could walk through them at a strolling pace, would those images i find there be true to reality now? I loved a girl once. But did i ever love her at all? Maybe i only loved a phase a girl was going through when i knew her. Maybe i never knew her. In which case, there is a long vacant corridor in my heart with an imaginary name etched above its entry. Maybe imaginary, but no less powerful. A name that refers to no one real has no less meaning than one's own name, provided the owner of the named is familiar with the address. Likewise, my imaginary love would mean no less to me had she never existed. For she may not have lived beyond the confines of my own mind and heart. Indeed, she may now and only, exist in that memory of my heart's imagination. If i am to be remembered at all, what might i be in the heart of another's imagination? The lost? The missed? The failed? I think i'd rather stay forgotten. I'd rather be forgotten alltogether, than be remembered wrong. I wish i could offer the same in turn. But i have a selective memory, of which i have no say in remembering.

What it is.

I can sit for hours just thinking about what to do next. But it's only when I finally decide to focus my scatter brain on something that the creaking above me begins, or the phone rings, or the terrorists to peace of mind begin to strike. It's not perspective. As Ashton would say, it's just "what it is." I get that now. All this time I had no idea the level of apathy he must have been wrestling with until recently. I wake up every day with that expression in one way or another. My particular brand is of the 'ugh' variety. How are you? Ugh. What's new? Ugh. What do you want? Ugh. I suppose if I wanted anything specifically the 'ugh.' might turn into an ugh! But probably not. I seem to have misused all my exclamations on the burned out expectations of yester-years. And though now when asked, I can only muster that three letter abortion of a thought expressed as ugh, there is still inside me a muted voice shouting so hard that my eyes would tear up if not for the dismissing philosophy of 'what it is.' If I had an answer to the question it has long been forgotten. Ugh doesn't require thinking about it. It really is about the most polite way of telling somebody to fuck off. How are you? Ugh. What's new? Ugh. What do you want? Fuck off! That's what i really want I suppose, for the rest of the world to just ugh! Sometimes I wish I could go back to being that guy who wore his heart on his sleeve and got used to it being mangled on a regular basis. At least then I could cry over something and know that I feel sadness. Now I just expect people to let me down and justify my lack of feeling sadness with ugh. What it is. I'm either on my way to being a very cold individual, or on my way to a total meltdown. I can't really tell at this point in time. What is can tell though, is every tear that has never fallen from my eyes, will eventually come pouring out. And there will be no amount of ugh that will dismiss it. We all crack eventually. What it is becomes 'what is it?' as we finally face the ugh life has handed us.