Yesterday’s lovers

7 Comments

1. Matt — February 15, 2004 #

   You spent all day trying to write something for Valentine’s Day and that’s the BEST you can come up with?

   You suck.

2. Jack — February 15, 2004 #

   Ditto.

3. Care — February 15, 2004 #

   I didn’t get a paper heart OR sweet candy from my Valentine. I got supper!

4. Pearle — February 16, 2004 #

   Edited!

5. Pearle — February 16, 2004 #

   OMG, the thing cut me off. Matt, edit the previous post! I’ll repost here.

   Everything is relative, Matt. What you wrote is far more fitting, far more telling, than the crap I could have pulled for Valentine’s. Do you want to know what a Valentine’s update from ME would look like? Something like this:

   The drive home to and from work. Usually, this is a cathartic experience: I’ve done this so many times in the past year, I could do it without looking up once to check the stoplights. This gives the mind plenty of time to busy itself with things more mindless than driving. And so my car meanders, just as my mind does, down the aimless trails of my internal monologues. God, what a tangled roadway.

   Here’s one: I’m driving past Burnaby Hospital, on the way home I’ve got Norah Jones in the CD player, aiding and abetting the crime that is driving braindead.

   Her stuff is like psychological quicksand, slowly engulfing some part of my sub-conscious. I can feel myself sinking under the soft granules of her song. I can feel myself wishing that I want to wake up with the rain falling on a tin roof, while I lay there in your arms.

   And all I ask is for you to come away with me in the night, come away. Come away, with me.

   I can’t explain the tears that roll down my cheeks. Like to the road, I haven’t been paying attention.

   Here’s another: the last thing he heard was my car door shutting closed. The last thing I said, though, was “Sure,” a response to his question of “Can I call you?” The question inside me was “Why would you call me, after you shot me down?” So many questions to ask while I made my way home from dinner. With a friend. Why did I hold him for that long, at the end of the night? Why did he ask me that question, after he said no? What am I doing?

   I got home. The car door that closed out all those questions — it was jammed. The only way I can open that door is from the outside. Here I am, asking myself, does that mean anything? And now, here I am, thinking to myself that maybe I’ll ask the pointless questions to myself in the car. I never liked thinking about driving anyways.

   Sheesh. OK, no more posting about Valentine’s. Hell, no more talking about it either. It’ll only screw you up, man.

6. Matt — February 17, 2004 #

   I edited your first comment.

   Keeping in line with the brevity of this update, all I will say is: Get a site, write more, you’re much better at it than you’re willing to admit, and I’ve always thought so.

   Good job.
   Matt

7. Pearle — February 17, 2004 #

   Is that a round-about way of telling me that my posts are too long???

   So mean. Yeah, Happy Valentine’s to you too. Bum.