Heart Recycle 101

I am participating in yet another online writing course. Below is an exert of the beginning questioner:


“Nostalgia is subtle but potent. There is a pressing dream of a past experience still living in your chest.”

Nostalgia, the tricky bastard.

The power in which our memories have to make the past seem better than it really was. The seduction in the selection in which it chooses to replay.

Its criminal, our cognizance and the way it takes pleasurable partisan of our perceptions.

My memories make a mockery of me at times.

The way I can close my eyes and still feel his presence here. I can feel my hand in his, the way my fingers felt as they ran through his thick, salt and peppered hair. The way he smelled, the safety of the sound of his heartbeat with my head upon his chest.

The night we danced to Otis Redding in my front room at 2am and the way his voice sounded when he said “I’ll love you, forever.”

His piercing brown eyes, how they melted me each and every time they stared into mine.

When I close my eyes I don’t feel the heartbreak. How it felt when with him, went so much of me.

I can’t feel the anger I held in his apathy. The daunting of his disregard.

I’ve closed off his coldness. I’ve erased the emotionally unavailable and the ego of him somehow.

I disremember all the disrespect.

It wasn’t perfect. My loneliness, a liar, placating me into believing it was.

My memories of my childhood are all too, placated perceptions.

To see only the beauty within the begotten of the chosen forgotten.

I can close my eyes and see my mother dancing, singing along to the Judd’s, throwing flour in the kitchen as we laugh and bake cookies. I can see her driving, smiling and laughing as she makes up her own words to the songs.

I can smell the scent of Vanilla Fields, Rave hairspray, and Doral cigarettes just as I did when I’d breathe in her when I was small and I’d hug her ever so tight.

I can hear the way she’d call me Pita, her raucous laughter, her silly, inappropriate jokes.

I don’t hear her screaming. I don’t see her toothless grin or her frail and failing body.

I have erased the embarrassment, the emptiness. I don’t account for the abandonment or the addiction.

I remember the beauty. I’ve buried the breakdowns.

In a sense, I guess, I have repressed the regrets.

Still yet, the sorrows don’t entirely suppress.

I have created a highlight reel in reverences, momentary phases that fade out the madness in attempts to long live the love that has been made. All the while craving the love I want so badly to come to me. But worrying that perhaps my faulty mind has fictitiously forecasted that as well in addition to romanticizing all the ever was.


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