Keep me, please.

Keep me with you, old memories, hanging like a light bulb in the attic of my heart. Keep me whole and present in the warmth of your bosom. Let me hold your memory like old lovers do, or like those who refuse to let go of one another.
Let me think this way and let me believe that the word never can never exist.

I was listening to a man give an update about his health. This happened yesterday morning while sitting on the train and heading to work.
The video came after the man’s double lung transplant.

He has no memory of the last few months of his life.
Absolutely none.
However, his wife documented the last few months in her journal. I am sure this was hard for him to read. I am equally sure it was surprising for him to learn about the people who came to support him.

What do I miss most?
Do you mean the good days?
Or when you ask what do I miss the most, do you mean who, or what, why, when and where?

I suppose there are differ answers to all the above.
Of course, I miss the good times. I miss being resilient.
I miss being able to get back up and snap back into place. I miss the ability to heal as if I was never hurt to begin with, or as if I never fell at all.

Sure, I miss that.

I might have to file this under T.M.I. as in Too Much Information.
But hey, there’s no one here but us, at least for now.

Did you ever have one of “those” dreams?
They are sexual, yet nothing sexual happens. They are intimate and somehow there is an intimate understanding as if to prove that something sexual is about to happen.
And soon too.

I don’t know what life would be like without music. Then again, I don’t know what my memories would be like without the songs or the anthems of my youth.

I just don’t know.

I used to love my early morning drives. I still do.
I love driving off when the sun comes up and the music from the radio in my car is not too loud, but loud enough to let my mind slip into different rhythms.

The sun is coming up behind me and I am off and gone, just driving in my own mindless way, carefree and disconnected, if that makes any sense.

I think youth shows us something new and something different. Maybe I was afraid then too. Or maybe I was less afraid than I am now.
Maybe experience tricks us into believing that one thing is the same as all things.
But what about the dreams?
What happened to the way things used to be?
Was everything we had not good enough?

I understand that all things change. I understand that nothing stays the same and anything that does can become ordinary, at best.
Such is life after the newness wears off.

Here I go again, streaming my conscious self, and speaking to you in the form of my written confession. I am here to reveal myself.
Or perhaps I am only thinking once more, out loud, and with no limits.
I have nothing left to hide.
Anyway, it’s time.
There is no one else to stop me, keep me still, or prevent me from going forward.
I am free now and free in ways that I never considered.
But either way, I am free nonetheless.

I am here.
Always here. Just know this.
Then again, where else would I be?
Who else would I be if I was not me or coming back to this same place every day?
If I were not me and you were not you, I wonder where I would be?
Or would I be anywhere, if not here anyway?