Just when you think you have completely forgotten it all, who you once were, those decades of feeling long gone, something happens to make you remember. You put the key into the ignition, and turn, and suddenly it comes flooding back. The radio comes on, and the windshield wipers beat across the wet glass like wings. You hear a song you haven’t heard in years. You bite down hard on the memory, and taste blood.
You have grown into this memory like a tree grown into the crosshatch pattern of a cyclone fence.
Your life is just a series of corners, one after another. It is never a whole thing, with a beginning and an end, like a movie. Or a book. Just a collection of half-moments, stolen conversations, aching beauty, pitiful nights, and brief periods of ecstasy shining between long dull stretches of emptiness.
Why haven’t I learned this? Why am I still, still waiting for it all to finally begin?