(Written ~December 2014)

You write to me late at night, deliriously emotional. You were my friend’s first post secondary love, and my first measuring stick of her depth of feeling. Drugs race through your body, or, perhaps,it is just alcohol, acting like a drug upon your compromised system. You say drugs with a sssszzz342, adding letters where words don’t suffice. “At least I can type.”  That much you remember. Who am I? You write my name. What else does it make you remember?

I, too, am delirious in a night of emotions. I play an age old song on loop, a song you don’t know I know, a song that acts like alcohol upon compromised emotions. Sounds wriggle on repeat and wrap like white ribbons in the darkness of my mind. It reminds me of when I used to lift big pretty stones to find nests of worms, horrified at finding out the complexity that existed beyond my imagination. Now, as I relive that moment in a grown up context, I reflect on how I can tell you jokes and comfort you even as I plunge my hand into that excruciating bed of worms.

It’s not that simple; nothing is. Back in my first year of university, I would caution my friend against drinking alone; now I laugh with you. I more often than not open that can of worms myself to enjoy, without telling you; but I rarely open that song convincing myself it’s because of what it might do to me in public. Well, I was wrong, as I have always been. You, the potential friend’s boyfriend, stop your talk because I have stopped my talk; were I to have drawn the wry observations and jurassic spelling match a little longer, you might have put that stone back down and walked away. Instead we both grapple that slippery mess all alone in the darkness, losing every head or tail we find, too proud to ask for that lantern we refused the first time.

Feeling my feels, in fiction. First creative writing in half a year!! Sadly, though, all of this actually happened, so I guess it isn’t fiction, but it’s still creative instead of non fiction/journalistic.


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