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Memory is a strange thing, did you know that? It doesn’t work the way we think it does; it’s less trustworthy than we’d like. It’s all a little game of make-believe – or, as Wily Willy Shakies would say, “all the world’s a stage, and we are merely players.”

My memories of you are like that of a play-gone-wild; there’s no director, there’s no plot, there’s no denouement — the curtain just fell.

I remember the first time I met you (I think) and you wore…I don’t know and I don’t care because I was arrested by your presence, I was stunned by your being. You tripped a switch inside of me. My heart didn’t skip a beat, but not for lack of trying on its part.

I saw you and I knew: she’s going to wreck me.
(You did, but that’s okay, it’s just a play-act and after we can all return to our places, none the worse for wear.)

I remember the first time we kissed (of this I’m certain) and I think it was your fault. You tricked me into it – I didn’t mind the deception. It was the first of many deceptions, I didn’t know that then, but it was pleasant and warming and felt more true than much I’d encountered before.

I enjoyed it and I knew: she’s going to have power over me forever.
(You do, but that’s okay, we’re about to head to intermission and the breather will help us all get back to normal, this won’t hurt at all in a bit.)

I remember the last time we fought (I’d prefer to forget) and this time it was me. I don’t do conflict well; I avoid it, I bury it, I ignore it, I silence it, until it unearths itself and let’s loose. There was no shouting. There was no violence. There simply was the icy cold fact that this was over.

It was freeing and I knew: we can’t come back from this.
(And we didn’t, and that’s not okay, because we can never go back to the beginning, and once the curtain is down the show is over – our show is over and nobody pays to see it again.)

Memory, such a faulty thing: it wraps up in a neat bow the beginning, the middle, and the end, but it misses all the little things – it misses the photographs, it misses the random walks in the park, it misses the sweet-nothings, it misses the letterpress cards. It forgets the little things that make the big things worth it.

It forgets the little things that give us meaning.

Memory, what a silly play we play with ourselves.  The End.


About Quinn

In it but not of it. A reformed player, now watcher. Speaker of raw truths.


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Raison d’etre

"Raw," she said. "I want something primal. I want something bare and naked. I want you to give me this life raw, unbidden, unhidden, free, fair, and true. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?"

One may only try.

March 2013
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