never. let. me. go.
I was considering posting up a picture of me kissing someone. It was a blurry photo, taken January 2004. Nine years ago. When this blog first started. So long ago. And I remember everything about her, and her, and her, and her. all of them.
I never forget. Never a name. Never a face. I could pick any one of them out of a crowd if I knew they were there and could be bothered to look. I remember every face. Every name. Every birthmark. Every tattoo – some beautiful. And that one of a fucking leprechaun on a mushroom smoking weed, maybe not beautiful. (Christ, girl, what demented shit were you thinking?) Everywhere. Every mole. And every room we ever made love in. I remember it all – its seared into me like a burn.
You might think I am weird. In fact, you almost definitely do. I prefer to think of it that you are the weird ones. How, after experiencing the most sacred thing that two adults can experience aside from birth and death, would you expect me to forget you? How could you expect me to forget that you were born in 1965 or 1972 or 1981? How could you expect me to forget you were born in February, or May, or April? How could expect me to forget that for a while – a few weeks, months, years, decades, I was the man you chose to be your sidekick in the adventure of life? That you gave me the gift of being the one you chose to do the things you wanted no one else in the world to do? How could you expect me to forget – or get over – that once, you loved me, and I loved you, and the things we did together were the things I dreamed of and fantasised of when I was a teenager, and the same things I dream of and fantasise of now, as a middle aged man crushed by work, commuting, children and the boredom of normality?
We are all a product of everything that happened to us on the way to the future. Think of me as weird all you like, but I don't forget the one thing that we had that no one else had – that moment, that night, - where no one else in the universe experienced, just you and I, and wherever you are, whatever you are doing, even if you shit on my heart laughing as the fucked up, selfish brat you once were, I hope that you are a better person and happy and would not treat people like that again.
How much drama can one man have? Oh, every kiss and every push is too much. I've had in some ways a tumultuous life : in the nine years this blog has been existant I've been through many things : two divorces (bad), two weddings (one bad, one amazing), two children, three homes, six sexual partners, nine offices, six employers, two cats. Too much change for nine years. We spend much of our lives aiming for an ideal, and then, when we find it, or something livably close to an ideal, we spend the rest of our lives frantically trying to stop the whole house of cards collapsing round our ears, the modest house of a roof over our head and some food to eat, that's all we need. Ever told how fragile and lucky we are for slaving away at work.
Enough with the drama. I've tired – as I did quickly – of finding myself in relationships that didn't quite work, of 14 months in love, and five years shackled together, of taking the dreams we made and the unborn children and the holidays that never happened, and having to dismantle the foundations and start again with another dream. As if I were a second-hand husband, a cast-off, barely-used, one insane female-owner. We are all so much more than that. I dream.
I am. Even if no one else notices, even if I am just another face in the crowd, another anonymous person on the platform, I am.