I just want you to know that it is okay to forget me… to let my memory go with the wind.
The thought of not being remembered used to alienate me – the idea that my presence would no longer be appreciated made me quite sick. But then I realised I am present. It may sound nonsensical but I am present. Meaning I am intertwined in so much, whether my smell in clothes, my face in visions, my words in print. I am enclosed in the little and the large without witness.
Maybe family will forget how I chew my tongue when in thought. And friends will recall my silence during amorous conversation. But my silence. My absence. It lives.
This sadness of mine is abrasive and quintessential.It grabs me by the throat with caressing fingers and squeezes the passion out of me. The passion of love, light, hope and happy spurt from between her fingertips in splashes the longer I allow her to take hold.
Some days I shake her off, bidding her leave from my body and other times I let her consume me. She has found her home inside of me. I let her swell when she is needy and other times she goes on vacation. She knows I’m always waiting, sitting up in my room like Brandy for her return. And she always does, though quiet. Blowing kisses at the door she runs up and hugs me.
At times, I feel warm with sadness. She has a way of mellowing me when I am red-hot. I need her to antidote my fires. Because their burn is so severe I know I will become a victim of spontaneous combustion and end up in smoke.
But what is wrong with ashes? The burnt, blackness that remains after incineration does not differ too greatly from my battered self. I have been bruised and browned in life. There is little dissimilarity between myself and ashes.
And smoke. She is my friend too. I like the way she moves so seamlessly with air. Like an elusive exotic dancer teasing and taming and tantalising. I wish to be as grateful as this wistful white thing they call smoke. She is a marvel from the ash. Intangibly beautiful.
Why can’t I be as beautiful as her?
Why must I be Earth when I can be whimsical?
I want to be as free as smoke. I don’t want to be buried in the ground.