Fickle

The funny thing about complications, emotions, ultimatums, the “never again” mantra is that all it takes is one morning when the air seeping in from your leaky window is just a little cold and you under the blanket are just a little hot, and your feet come out the edge for equilibrium, you see your alarm clock won’t buzz for another hour and everything seems different.

More than once the best laid plan is laid to rest. We want to think we’re in control of these sort of intangibles, or can at least recognize our lack thereof when we act out and are directed by them, but really, for me, I know that I am not. The manic moods of the unexpected call, the chance held out as soon as it’s not wanted, all of it, propels me forward in ways that I would never trade. Being alone and not lonely, being together and feeling so far apart, these are the things I can tell you about us. The greats, and they were greats, the best of them were so good that no other two people in the world experienced them quite like we did, no one knew as much, criticized so little, fell so hard and from such heights. We were the same, we knew that we were lucky only because something worth remembering is never permanent. It has no time at all, the metaphorical shelf-life of milk, if that. Just wistfully called upon in quiet moments. Like this. When I knew I was alive for a reason, and now, I can’t remember anything about it at all, just that it happened, it happened to us and to me, I can’t tell you why or how, but it did, I promise and one day I hope to tell someone, anyone, that I know how to do it again.