An envelope full of memories.

Emptying out my backpack-
Too full of fly-about sheets for my sanity-
I rifle through a month full of memories.
Receipts, from conversations and lunches,
Their faded typed lettering reflective of so much more than numbers-
Reflective of squeals squealed and hugs inflicted,
Happiness relived and memories both shared and made.
Hastily scribbled napkins with dates and times and tiny snippets of life;
Tickets, which say the flight time is two hours,
But I know better- I know how many years and weeks and months it took to reach there.
Boarding passes, reminiscent of a stinging embarrassment, when I left one behind on the counter-
Reminiscent of the night of sleepless revelry that led to such forgetfulness-
Reminiscent of all that came before and all that came after.
Cards, thrust into my hands by eager shopkeepers,
Symbols of purchases made, of another day and another friend, of brownies and twinship,
Of a slight rebelliousness in the air that day,
Which leads back again to other days,
Other memories-
A lifetime full of memories.
My envelope full of memories.

~Sam

Because I spent half this morning thinking about the tee-shirt you sleep in.

The title is a reference to a song by Birdy, every single word of which is resonating with me right now, which is a situation I'm not too pleased with. Can you please just go away, feelings? This is not working out for me. I need a break. Go away, go party in Hawaii or something. Lust after some hot lifeguard. Just stop feeling so much, god, stop being so aware of him every moment of every day, stop thinking about what he might be doing, stop looking at his facebook profile, the same pictures over and over again, stop thinking about that god-awful smirk of his, stop it, stop it, stop it.
And if you can't stop, at least get some decent writing out of it, what the hell is this crap? Just quote some nice song by someone else, and that's it, you're done expressing yourself? Come up with something original, jeez. Write a bit of angsty poetry. A future classic about the hardships of love, or whatever in the hell this is. Obsession, I think, would be a better description than love. [Would also make a better story.] Love is so different. Right? So much purer. So much less moony, or at least I hope so- unless the mooning is reciprocated, in which case, all is okay. Love has to be reciprocated, right? You can't just fall in love with the twirl of someone's hair, the poise of his hands and feet (did you even know feet could be poised?), the intensity and laughter of his gaze. Can you? Can you be in love with someone who isn't even here, in whose life you don't even feature, except maybe some extra who moved across the screen that one time in that one scene? Can you be in love with someone who exists more in your mind than in your life?
Oh shut up, you aren't in love with him. A week of vacation, when your mind isn't desperately trying to get away from thinking about work and other things actually relevant to your life, and you'll be over him like a frog over a puddle.
At least I hope you will. Don't fall into that puddle, frog. Don't let the pretty shimmering entice you into it. That light is deceptive. That puddle is not good for you. Jump over it, and hop away as fast as you can. Or better yet- jump over it, and forget it ever existed in the first place.
Is this writing good enough to make up for all of the feelings? I certainly hope so, because it's all I got right now.

I shall stop talking to myself now.
Goodnight folks. (Ha, like I'm sleeping.)

Love or whatever,
~Sam

PS: This is our 300th post! Yay! 

What is it about the rain that makes you remember?

Our first guest post! This is by a friend of mine (Sam's), the aforementioned Vowel-less. Enjoy yourself with this wonderful piece on the most wonderful things of all-rain and memories.

Also available on her own blog: http://doubt-thou-the-stars-are-fire.blogspot.in/2014/06/what-is-it-about-rain-that-makes-you.html
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I am sitting by the window. It is raining and I can feel the drops of water on my face. As a drop trickles down my face and falls on my hand, memories of a time long forgotten, a childhood, not that far back yet so unreachable, flood my mind. A sudden flashback of running through the front garden and getting drenched in the rain in one of the many old British-style houses that I lived in fills my mind vividly. Then another image, of my mother shouting at me asking me to come back.
What is it about rain that always makes you sift through all those past memories that in the humdrum of daily life become repressed in your subconscious?
Hailstones! The initial excitement of listening to the exaggerated pitter-patter on the roof as tiny lumps of ice fall on the ground. Running to the front verandah to collect the ice faster than my brother. Image after image of those days, long past. Of innocence, long gone. Of hope, long forgotten. Memories.
A song comes to my mind. The song that was playing in the background when I shared an umbrella with my first crush. I can almost feel my heart thundering, the way it had thundered for those few precious stolen moments. Anticipation tugs at my heart. And a certain melancholy. A sudden yearning to go back into those days of sweet innocence, of glorious horizons and endless possibilities, of happy dreams. Falling asleep near my mother. Playing with my brother. Not knowing the feeling of apprehension. Where future is a bright happy place.
What is it about rain that makes you remember?

~Vowel-less

Nostalgia

Facebook is such an effortless scrapbook, no? It shows so well how the present turns to the past, and the past turns to memories, so ephemeral, so seamless. And the parts of our life that are on there are so happy, so joyous. It's like it just takes your real life and distills all the crap and and the stress and the tension and the ugliness, so that all you're left with is well-framed happiness and laughter and hugs. And joy. Plain, simple, posed smiles. With a few glimpses of real happiness, which just adds luster and depth to the whole thing.


I wish I could relive the past year, as facebok sees and shows it.

~Sam