Once again I stare up at the ceiling, devoured by moving shadows. These demons that ever so lurk silently, but there, right before my eyes. Once again, I stir alongside the awakening of these spirits.
They consume me like Midsommar’s fire, silently incinerating my body. But they cannot reach my heart, for it is safe within the grasp of a familiar man; he who lies invisible beside me in my bed. He whose ghostly arms envelop me like a blanket of snow, protecting me always.
Breathing into me, I rest: once again, forevermore.
You’re wearing Red today.
I usually alternate between two pajammies: an oversized green T-shirt from my sister’s university, with light silk bottoms that flow past my ankles. The other pair is an oversized loose maroon shirt that could almost slip past my shoulders, with a thick cotton candy colored PJ bottom that is much too big for me.
But I couldn’t find the latter outfit and saw this old red tiger T shirt from years ago, when I was maybe 7, from a time when Koreans are much too obsessed with soccer championships. I threw that on, plugged in my headphones, and out of the mundane I heard, and remembered, the most normal detail.
(I wrote this some months ago, but I never published for some reason, so here it is now.)
You’re wearing Red today.
Letting go is a form of catharsis I have a hard time with. It’s contradictory: it’s freeing, and then hollow at the same time. The sorrow of losing sometimes is heavier on some days, but I put trust and faith into my steps and walk towards tomorrow.
It teaches me to cherish something or someone while they are still there. To know that nothing lasts forever, or at least most things, and that the beauty of the human heart is ever so fleeting. It is like listening to a song filled with emotions: its riveting, broken chords woven into a comprehensible and beautiful melody. The little moments that build the full composition that is art. To be appreciated whether by note or holistically. The piece doesn’t last long, and a part of me may wonder if it is worth searching for the name of the song, and its soul. Instead, some are left to be only enjoyed in that moment, and while I desperately want to know, the greater part of me lays still, alone on my bed, with my back turned against it. As thoughts pervade my mind and heart, my better judgement roots me there, and all I can do is appreciate it. Able and unable to move.
So I let go, of all convictions that would otherwise motivate me to seek it out, and I simply enjoy the time I have left. The final broken chord represents the dissipating emotions, and there I lay in a forgetful shroud that blankets me and consumes these memories. I don’t remember many of these songs, and while they don’t resound so clearly and beautifully anymore, the pain of forgetting is always softened by time, ironically. The Eraser of Memories itself.
Inspired by Moon Arpeggio.