Capricious

17 - Déjà Vu, Déjà Entendu, Déjà Connu

"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."
- Anaïs Nin

What is worse? Losing something, or discovering it never even existed in the first place?

Fiction is circumstance. And as the world works to erode circumstance, our fiction falls apart.

A group of wildly silly and promiscuous dreams I can barely remember now. Congestion too heavy for my brain to handle. Full of innocence, delusion and desire. For dreams can at least be felt if not recalled, as can most things. We find we cannot answer the why, but we know how a thing has made us feel.

Shards of unconscious memory bleeding through from hidden reaches at any a random thing. Déjà vu, déjà entendu, déjà connu. The idea of lives lived elsewhere, that souls may have touched in other times, other realms. That is what they are. Echoes, scars, underlying spirit. There must be something in our genes, I'm sure. Feelings lived by ancestors passed down. That is how we attain who we are, outside of our environment. That is how the turtles know to reach the sea, how the birds know to migrate south, how we know to walk and talk and think and fuck. That is why we feel closer to those related to us, they are more us than anyone else. Memories hidden in chemicals, we not knowledgeable enough to know how to uncover just yet.

Mania swelling, beginning to bloom, a surprise comes to me. A contrived exchange combining nostalgic past and matured present. Now not soon after I am feeling at a future, at an unthought line of possibilities. I like it. With what I have gained, what could blossom, what might we get up to? I dream of labels, journeys, a return with. And I notice that which was never there with her before, the closer circumstance, the lack of fear, the amicable desire. Could my obsession finally be disintegrating? Differences highlighting themselves. Comparing the few possibilities of that with the many of this. Warmth there would be, joy there could be, pleasure there might be. I day dream over the endless possibilities I wish might occur. Wondering if maybe I am already free.

In changing worlds, you forget sometimes gaieties of the past, until a reminder happens to swing by, lighting up memories, restoring some good. I was so much younger emotionally back then, a mile in of experience between. But now with what I have learned I wonder, were we ever close enough? Did purity enough ever exist in those more innocent forms? Low and behold, I seem to be attracted to our memories, of wide hugs and drunken games, long conversations and being covered in blue paint. We were ever the outsiders together.

It hits me like a punch to the chest, the winding I used to get. But instead of pain there is pleasure. And I am reminded of the fights we used to have. Kids unafraid of pain or retribution or consequence. Friends all the while. And even when older, but this time slightly feared. And now rarely so, afraid that my body may mistake it for something else.