When moments go unfinished.
Moments go unfinished sometimes.
If you love someone and lose them before their idiosynchracies have ceased to be the minutae upon which your love feeds and have become the irritating habits that breed discontent, then a moment has been left undone. Had the relationship continued on its natural course, perhaps the love would have diminished as you became more conscious of a particularly hairy belly or nasal clickings or butt-scratchings, and you would have been relieved to be relieved of the frog who was once your true love.
An unfinished moment, however, can be like a peach hidden behind Tupperware bowls and gallons of Vitamin D milk and tubs of butter in the refrigerator of your head. For a while, the peach sits in a suspended state of ripening. Of course, it wasn't ripe when you bought it, so it has some time. After a while, it begins to decay and wither and slime and smell. The pungent aroma overtakes the innocent sweetness of the Florida orange juice and the forceful bite of the loose garlic cloves. And even once you've discoverd the source of the odor and removed it, the memory of it clings to the white walls and the plastic containers.
When a moment is incomplete, the memory of it ripens in the back of you mind behind to do lists and worries about massacres and spelling bees. The moment itself never had the chance to reach its fruition, and now, in your mind, it becomes hyper-ripe. All of its possibilites make it plump and rich-smelling. But then it begins to smell too strongly. Initially, perhaps you have to throw out a cd and a few photos in the hopes of ridding yourself of the memory. But it clings to other songs and photos and even other passing and unrelated memories.
I don't know what to do about left-over memories.
If you love someone and lose them before their idiosynchracies have ceased to be the minutae upon which your love feeds and have become the irritating habits that breed discontent, then a moment has been left undone. Had the relationship continued on its natural course, perhaps the love would have diminished as you became more conscious of a particularly hairy belly or nasal clickings or butt-scratchings, and you would have been relieved to be relieved of the frog who was once your true love.
An unfinished moment, however, can be like a peach hidden behind Tupperware bowls and gallons of Vitamin D milk and tubs of butter in the refrigerator of your head. For a while, the peach sits in a suspended state of ripening. Of course, it wasn't ripe when you bought it, so it has some time. After a while, it begins to decay and wither and slime and smell. The pungent aroma overtakes the innocent sweetness of the Florida orange juice and the forceful bite of the loose garlic cloves. And even once you've discoverd the source of the odor and removed it, the memory of it clings to the white walls and the plastic containers.
When a moment is incomplete, the memory of it ripens in the back of you mind behind to do lists and worries about massacres and spelling bees. The moment itself never had the chance to reach its fruition, and now, in your mind, it becomes hyper-ripe. All of its possibilites make it plump and rich-smelling. But then it begins to smell too strongly. Initially, perhaps you have to throw out a cd and a few photos in the hopes of ridding yourself of the memory. But it clings to other songs and photos and even other passing and unrelated memories.
I don't know what to do about left-over memories.
posted by Autumn at 1:13 PM
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