“Your memory is a monster; you forget, it doesn’t. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you, and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you.” - John Irving
rather than incessantly talk about the weather, complain about the banality that modern day ailments which travel and education bring, get hostile about social ineptitude of geographical points or emotions, send text messages which hardly articulate the passages of things you actually want to say, use drugs as an excuse to sit on the same sofa, turn inbox into substitutes for actual human contact- (it should have been simple) we ought to have got right to the point. should have told you that you made my heart explode like a rocket racing to the outer space. should have told you i couldn't locate my anchor when you came by, because everything floated or flew away. but i thought it would be foolish to say anything. still telling you everything that etched deeper than ingrown nails would have been a sweeter solution.
and maybe, just maybe you could have told me everything else.