Reading provided by my yoga instructor:
“I relax my consciousness. I unset my heart. I wear the world as a loose garment. I learn to dance with grace on the constantly shifting carpet.”
A stretched moment.
On my inner thigh there is a stretch mark.
Where did you get that cut?
A cut? Is he serious? I lie, because I’m embarrassed.
I don’t remember.
I think you do, he says.
I think it’s one of those doctor ones. Probably from yanking me out of the womb.
Wouldn’t that be on your head?
Oh… uh, yeah. Good God just let it drop.
Well… it’s from when I was smaller.
And that much is true.
A selected memory.
In the vestibule of Scotiabank he pulls back, stopping to wonder why my lips taste salty. How easily the past hour has been forgotten, where I cried and asked desperately to be shown genuine affection.
A scary dream.
Two weeks into the future, and me and some peeps are having drinks at Future’s before my film screens. He shows up, looking mad and purposeful. I can’t even draw, but I can render the likeness of his face. I can easily hear how his voice would sound saying words he’s never said.
He says with a hint of madness ,“So I’m a bastard? Is that what you’re telling everyone?” He sounds furious, but I’m certain his face is distorted by miserable torment (“I fucked him up good,” I think... kinda pleased actually).
He’s close and squeezing my shoulders to a point where I start to panic and think “He’s a psychopath. OH MY GOD he’s going to kill me!!!” My dream brain quickly corrects itself, assuring me that I know he couldn’t be a killer. But then immediately counter that assurance with, “Why not? He lied about everything else.” Which is when he leans in and kisses me harshly. I’m offended. My face goes screwy. Hot with fury. HOW DARE HE PULL THIS SHIT, I think. But I feel thrilled. So INCREDIBLY thrilled as I am able to think the one question I know in reality I will never again get to think...
What does the kiss mean?
A sad reality.
I wake up, and I can hear the mouse rustling around. It just barely registers because my face is still warm and there are tears streaming down it... and just like that, two weeks be damned, it might as well have all happened yesterday.
Reset.
“I relax my consciousness. I unset my heart. I wear the world as a loose garment. I learn to dance with grace on the constantly shifting carpet.”
-Des.
If I were a yoga posture, I would be... child's pose.
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"We all have the potential to fall in love a thousand times in our lifetime. It's easy. The first girl I ever loved was someone I knew in sixth grade. Her name was Missy; we talked about horses. The last girl I love will be someone I haven't even met yet, probably. They all count. But there are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are the most important people in your life, and you’ll meet maybe four or five of these people over the span of 80 years. But there’s still one more tier to all this; there is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of these loveable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they’re often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really, want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else."
— Chuck Klosterman (Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story)
-lo
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