The brain is a pretty rad little doodad. Sitting atop your neck, buzzing with blood and budding thoughts like an apple tree in spring.
I think it's fascinating that we're still quire clueless as to how it really works.
There's one particular part that still fascinates me, namely, memory.
Memories are the cranial equivalent of keeping a diary or writing in a journal. a collection of feelings and happenings of days gone by and words once said.
There are a few journal entries, if you will, that stand out to me. Ones I made with a girl... let's call her B.
If B were here right now, I'd look her in her big brown eyes and ask her:
Do you remember?
Do you remember the divine way the curves of your body fit into mine was we lay in an amorous embrace amongst the blankets and downy pillows?
Do you remember the way I told you a million times that I loved your hair. Your angelic, graceful hair, even though you thought it was too long and too messy?
How we walked through the forest for hours, talking about nothing and nonsense, and how we sat on a log for what seemed like eternity until I manufactured enough courage to finally kiss you?
They say that elephants never forget, and every time you cross my mind I feel my nose getting a little longer and my skin turning a little greyer.
Do you remember? Because I sure as hell do.
Do you remember how adorable you looked in those pajama pants of mine that were about a foot too long for you because you forgot to bring your own?
Do you remember how we sat on a bench and watched the birds flit from feeder to feeder as the sun waved us a crimson farewell?
Do you remember the feeling of your lips upon my lips, and the simple fact that it is impossible to properly describe that in any banal combination of 26 tired characters?
Do you remember the bittersweet intermingling of the smells of my eighty dollar cologne and your forty dollar shampoo?
Do you remember the way we looked into each other’s eyes? The vast universes of possibilities leaping from neuron to neuron behind those irises?
Wonderful memories. Pleasant memories. You couldn’t ask for anything better than these kind of memories. But there’s more. And there’s a reason why they’re just memories.
I remember the way the blood drained from my face like your used bath water circled the drain in my bathtub, and how my heart went on strike and stopped beating when you told me we couldn’t be together.
I remember how similar the crunch of the leaves and twigs under our booted feet sounded to the cracking and shattering of my sanity as you drove away on that sombre day.
I remember all of the dreams my brain pumped out of its pitiful pineal gland in a futile attempt to travel back in time.
I remember the empty spot in my bed and the gaping and gushing hole in my heart that still exists
But for all of these melancholy memories, these rotten ruminations, the beast of anger has yet to rear its matted mane.
I thank you.
I thank you for this sadness, this regret, this longing, and this acute absence of rage,
For it is proof that I am alive.
I thank you for this sorrow, for this awful ammunition, for inspiration to machine masterpieces from the melancholy.
For what is light without darkness?
What is life without death, and love without loss?
So thank you.
I look back on our shared seconds not with eyes full of misplaced malice and fury,
But with gratitude.
Because even through tragedy
The heart survives.