The Process

It’s a process. It’s weird. Going through these songs. I walk back to places that I stood. At least in my head, sometimes in actuality. I remember being pissed off. And I think about what was playing on my truck radio. I look outside and I hear the words that were repeated over and over in my head. And I think about the things that I wrote down. I think about the recordings I made you, the thoughts that went into that. I still have that song list somewhere here. Odd isn’t it.

I piece together these events. I tape them together in my head. And press repeat on the cd player. I take a breath of the cold air and glance across the bench seat, and listen to what my head is playing.

I think about after we danced, and passed out on the floor. The song that was on that white iPod that one day. The lyrics that you tacked with a bottle cap  to the outside of your door.

It doesn’t make sense, but then it does. And then at times it can make too much sense.

I remember wrapped in a sheet in my apartment. Thinking the thoughts that can make one crawl inside. No sleep. No rest. And even though it was so dark in my home, I could still see the outline of all the things along the wall.

The medley that played in my head. Over and over. On the way to work and on the way home. Slamming my cell phone down into the floorboard of the car.

Coming home, coming home to a place that was mine, but yet feeling like it had been stolen away from me by something that I never had a chance against, and not knowing that until I saw the credits roll.

I question the validity of what I’m doing, and maybe in the moment of being there, even at a bad time – is better than not being there at all.

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