I think about you.
Even more than that, I talk about you.
No matter what kind of a relationship we have had, glorious or catastrophic, brief or ongoing….I constantly think about you.
My biggest fear is that I will one day die, and I will be forgotten. At first my memory will be fluent and revisited at major holidays where my friends and family sit and in the silence the echo of my sexy awkwardness floats through the minds of everyone in the room.
I never want to be forgotten. Better yet, I don’t want to leave a reason to be forgotten. I try to be a good person to everyone I meet so that I can make a thousand little differences. A smile, a laugh or even a “thank you” can turn days completely around.
I don’t take shame in revisiting my memories, both good and sometimes painful.
I replay moments from past romantic relationships, especially ones where I can go back and say “this is when I realized _________ about myself”.
I think about you, all of you.
I remember a towering amount of information about everyone I have ever met. I remember Birthdays long after I can even try to find you to let you know I remember it.
You are often the basis of my epic woven tales I tell others when they ask me to make up stories. Those tales are woven from the thread that slowly keeps me from unraveling. Everyone has made an impact no matter how small. The thread is multi colored, frayed, twisted and even barley holding together in some spots. But it is what tells my story. Maybe when I have kids they will ask for stories and I can take their hand and they can float above my past self and watch everything unfold in the most raw of ways. Pure emotion that radiates from every pore of my very existence.
Saying that I refuse to let the negatives influence me would be a perfect lie. In fact, sometimes I even strive to push those past negatives into my present to see if the lesson was universal or just situational. Does that make me crazy?
I think of you teachers. I think of you friends. Enemies. Gossipers. Glancers. Passers by. Pray-ers. Laughers. Criers. Dancers. Singers. “Ex’s”. Family. Professionals. Co-workers. Bloggers. Facebook enthusiasts. Photographers. Mutual line waiters. Servers. Doctors. Nurses. Receptionists.
I think of you. You will not be forgotten. Your essence remains in the dreams I weave. I fall asleep the the magical guitar that only plays music when the Stone Prince plays it.
You are alive and radiating in the imaginations of the next generation. So don’t feel forgotten. You are remembered.