leftovers

I have to wear my bulkiest bracelets on my left wrist, because I can't write if they ride on my right. I don't wear much jewelry. What I do wear is small and represents various shades of white, and hopefully comes off as understated. Some things are better if they exist at a lull.

They say if you look up and to the left, you'll remember what you forgot. I say nothing is ever forgotten. Rather, memories are suppressed or illuminated depending on the level of importance of the role they play (or have played) in your life. Everything matters, so why would we ever choose to forget?

I'm going to try harder to be more attentive. To pay closer attention to everything. Spyhouse is noisy, but maybe that's because I'm sitting right under the speaker, which blasts wordless indie beats that match the color of my faded denim jacket. Isn't it funny how sounds can have color? Voices and songs and memories. Sometimes I remember something and there's neither an image nor a sound, and yet I know exactly which memory it is. How it tastes, where it took place, and what followed. My life is a series of moving pictures: soundless, shapeless, all existing in my mind's eye in tangible, vibrant color, illuminated by experience and emotion - both heightened in afterthought. Because time doesn't heal all wounds, after all, and you never *truly* forget. "I am a part of all that I have met," says Alfred. How very right you are, my friend. And how strikingly, wonderfully vulnerable a truth.