11 December 2014

Blue Jeans

“Love you more, than those bitches before” - Lana del Rey, Blue Jeans

It’s the smallest things that define you. Like the colour of your favourite sweater, your favourite jeans. Your favourite cologne, or spray deodorant. The way you comb your hair.

The scent of your favourite detergent, softener and shower gel. These small specific traits of yours burned brutally into my memories where they stayed unscathed for years. I remember even where you bought your first sweater, the time you start changing your haircut, all of those that you completely forgotten; not even a shred of clue left.

My friends told me I have memories of an elephant. Reciting my favourite line by the eunuch Lord Varys from Game of Thrones: “Sadly My Lord. I never forget a thing” – simply implies a trait of mine.

Sadly, I never forget a thing. I remember every single idiosyncrasy, every tiny bit, piece of you that makes you, you. Like how you mindlessly giggle at my stupid jokes and how you’d be mad at me at my provocations, but you will remain silent as a sign of protest.

In my mind cluttered with a plethora of memories, I could not even search and begin to forget even one memory of you. For with every memory, I’ve attached strong feelings to. Those memories anger me, please me, shocked me, terrify me. But the cruellest thing they did to me was weakening me.

I am weakened by regret those memories evoked. I regretted that among those memories, I could not find the one I shown you how I really felt about us. I am weak to remember how much I wronged us, obliterating the chance of a future. I am weak knowing that the past glimmers brightly than the future, that the best emotions from my memories when I was with you could not be relived. Up to some extent, the weakening evolves into, and equates to, torment.

The torment morphing into a silent resentment, with hatred and curses of profanities. I feel, essentially weak. I harbour no control against my will to remember.

I always longed something more than this superficial life I’m living. Underneath this thin fa├žade of normalcy, the only thing remaining is my burning desire to break free. I’m so tired of pretending I can do this alone, and the desire breathes life to dreams transgressing from the realm of reality to the unattainable plane of fantasy.

It is you, the most prominent dream of all, creeping from one form to another, but true to the fundamental quintessence that you are – the haunting of that unquenchable thirst, insatiable need, throughout each dream and fantasy. I might have sense you in a different visual, context, olfactory stimuli, but it remains the same you and wanting, through and through. It’s a relentless, constant shriek from the deepest trench of my soul, demanding to settle score, demanding to even.

In my thousand shores of memories what makes you is not your looks and voice, but rather how each trait you possess ensembles into a silhouette I register as your identity. Your words, emotions, scent – a million tiny pieces completing the whole puzzle.

A pair of blue jeans, a white shirt. Everything underneath and above. The raunchy stolen kisses, a breath of hot air. The silencing noises, the piercing screams. The final motion. The gestures of love. The penetrating stares.

Memories are constructed from these – and you.

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