❁The car❁ joshler

Untitled Part 2 (a rambled train of thought)

I sit in my room, my face pressed against the dirty carpet. It's funny what you think of after an attack while lying in the dirt, the first thing that comes back is never quite what you'd have thought, what comes back is the memory of you and I as children. We played house in my basement. I would be the mother and you the dad. You would make me a dress out of the dirty sheets discarded on the dryer and we would later laugh at that image of ourselves when in history class, when we learned about roman togas. Then back in reality I shiver. The realisation of the sudden lack of that innocence striking me, a white rose, crumpled and impossible to resurrect.

I panic at your image, watching flashes of us in front of my eyes, this is what I do now every night. And then a voice that sounds melancholic, nostalgia and nonchalance ringing in echoes, rings through the room, sounds and words most unknown to my ears. It leads me to my bedside draw and an old and once empty schoolbook. There in pen so piercing that it could be a harpoon, is written simply and repeatedly the words "I love him". A book found left in the glovebox of our car as I waited for us to get to wherever we're going, something hidden. Over time the handwriting seemed to age, as if it was written throughout our time together, as if it aged with you.

And then a new voice, yours and mine combined in harmony, reciting a line from some time or another;

"Please don't go"

And then it stops, and I'm fine. All that is left is that uncanny feeling of something powerful, a Dé-Ja-Vu only felt here and now, when the regret is so strong that I regret nothing. I glance over at my piano and your drums. If we play our cards right we could be a reason to stare, but I don't want to get caught up in the spotlight. We play a different game to other bands; we care more about helping and building and living a community than being famous. I just hope we can make that audience big enough to be known.

There is something sublime about a stage presence, great and almighty, the stance that we hold in front of our audience filling us with adrenaline. When I'm up there, I feel a sort of empowering vulnerability, I'm completely calm but at the same time I can feel the energy coursing through me. I'm raw and grounded, it's the most natural feeling I know...and it's how I feel when I'm with you.

I stand up, the carpet between my toes is comforting as I make my way to the window. I slowly slip my hands between the curtains, pushing them apart to watch the trees. The mist over moss between the dark black-forest pines. Then just like that they turn back to the downtown rooftops and the slight silhouette of the city in the distance . I smile.

I walk to the attic, a self proclaimed studio that seemed to tell us its purpose as we arrived. Studio is a little ambitious, a small and dusty room empty of everything but the instruments we use. You nod in approval before returning to your laptop. And I stand. In the following my feelings flutter, because you ask if I want to go for a drive. And I do. God I do. More than anything.

So we go, the silence between us filled with the long anticipated soliloquy that I recite in my head. Rhetorical questions repeating and playing as a monologue in my mind. You look at me, you think I can't see. I blush and glance at you. You return your gaze to the road with a smirk set on your pretty mouth. It's just the feeling that it could be if we wanted it to that effects me so much. That feeling is what I lust over, my adrenaline, my dopamine. It's an addiction. The fact that we could do this and the fact that if we really wanted to we could touch right now with nothing stopping us but air is my all. Little deaths in these small spaces that we have shared between us seem to echo over the sound of tyres on asphalt.