The Writer's Address

Have you ever wondered how a memory tastes like? Is it salty tears of regret or sugar-dipped nostalgia? For me, memories are somewhat of a fabrication of the truth. I know what you’re thinking, how can my own memories be lies? But the truth is (and I use this term lightly) me and my subconscious have never been on good terms. I am not my own best friend. My own self lies to me and so in this perjury, my memories are fragmented, never whole, an angled bitter truth.

Today, something weird happened. I emerged grieving in my sleep, weeping as I slept. My eyes were glazed behind lethargic lids, compelling my body further into a deep slumber. I was no longer wrapped in red sheets, but somewhere else – this world was real, a prophecy or a memory I was not sure.

Dreams are strange experiences. They are, for a mere few seconds, as translucent as filmy acetate, vivid as Polaroids of your first time sitting front row at your favourite gig. Yet, the longer you stray, the faster they fade and the photographic memories burn away in the light, until nothing is left but an empty album of could have beens.

But as usual, I saved myself. Harbouring a writer’s instinct, I actively sought out pen and paper, scribbling away with one eye open, the little details that I was sure to forget. I became a crooked historian, seeming more of an imperialist recounting and revising history, conquest and righteousness in my own favour – somehow believing the ridiculous notion that a written forgery was much more real than a mental one.

From what my memory does justice, we were conversing in my front garden. I still remember the deteriorating brickwork of dirty terracotta, the atmosphere of an old road filled with ruined terrace houses, the sounds, smells and sights of a bustling community. I felt a connection to this place, it was home. I remembered the chafing of the textured, almost ribbed, aesthetics of the metal garden chairs, reminiscent of the types of dining at low-rent baguette restaurants. I remember how my heart felt, almost nostalgic but aged, as it hovered in this childhood as a grown adult,

Somehow, positivity was not on the cards – the atmosphere feigned an ominous mask, casting doom and shadows over our furrowed brows. I was handed four balloons, and I looked at you, seeing fear in your eyes. It was then that I knew this was the end. I had come here to expire. I should have felt alarmed, but the moment felt both apocalyptic and anticlimactic, upsetting yet unfeeling.

You sighed and I adverted my eyes to the rising ant colony holding their last moments near the broken brickwork under our table. You told me to split the balloons evenly, two for you, two for me.

And so we stood up. I guess this was the initial moment where I realised that this man’s identity was unknown to me. His existence was a mystery, yet inside there scorched an voracious need for sacrifice and duty. Your eyes were brown, they were warm, they were safe. And whilst my heart fluttered with nerves, I realised the depth of my affections.

You grasped my hand and interlaced your fingers through mine. You told me to point the balloons to the sky, holding them as Thor would his hammer. And as we did, they began to lift us, until we were the descendents of Mary Poppins, soaring with household objects to the current of the wind.

The tumult began to rise again, the sadness became overwhelming. The prospect of endings started to strengthen until it was all that I could see. You pursed your lips and came at me – the kiss was familiar, and I relapsed into some foreign addiction, lapping at the taste of your tongue. I could feel us flying. I could feel his body hugging every curve of mine. I could feel the raising hairs on the back of my neck internally prophesising the altitude. We were higher than everything we ever knew. We were escaping it all.

I felt his hand grow closer around my fingers as he coiled himself around me, until his skin became a costume of protective armour. I think I heard him clear his throat, I think I heard him whisper my name, I think I heard screams.

And I think I heard the balloons burst. The butterflies flew in a frenzy like frightened horses running aimlessly at the summer carnival. I remember the sadness, the confusion – I remember the grey.

A phrase that was carved on the walls of a concentration camp cell during WWII by a Jewish prisoner (via xstayfocused)