I struggle to pen something beautiful, but every time I knife past the twine and the packing papers, I risk revealing my heart. While the professionals say exposure is the best way to cope with anxieties, I’m not sure I’m ready.
I miss the days of the dark room. The chemicals and witnessing a white glossy piece of paper when treated properly becoming a piece of art. Now a white piece of paper is so daunting. I used to welcome the challenge; I used to be a daredevil. Now I check the mailbox for letters never written. (I remember when the boy with the guitar used to turn off the lights and write me letters by candlelight, telling me he did it because he loved me.) She asks me my address so she may write me; I wonder if she ever purchased the stamps.
It’s so easy to forget when you’re not the one forgotten. When I saw a friend from high school last December, her hair was as thin as her smile. She giggled nervously into a plastic cup filled with a mixed drink. Everyone seems to be changing all the time, and when I took out my phone to show her pictures, I realized how much I’ve changed (though I feel like I’ve been standing in one place or worse yet, running a treadmill. The scenery never changing, running in place to end up back where I started.).
I find myself sifting through memories as though they’re all I have, but really the best days are yet to come. I reread books until the spines are loose and require duct tape to stay together. I listen to melodies I could sing in my sleep. If my words were to catch fire, it’d be as devastating as a forest fire.