Ppilloww

I was definitely going to sleep. I was in bed with my eyes closed, just a moment ago. But I kept thinking, and not drifting. I dwelled on late February, 1998. I don't dwell on real things very often, old things that happened. I will write it down.

There was the girl on my bed, the bed that was really a sofa, that I always kept opened up into its bed state, in my little tiny apartment. And that girl was there in my shrinking bit of reality, where the girl who was officially forgetting was relatively far away. The girl sitting on my bed was there, now. A touch on the shoulder was something I initiated, without prompts. That's the most initiation I've ever given, I think. Before or since? It was enough to feel guilty about. A way to be very small. Finally, I was realizing that nobody is very interested in me. Just an unwelcome touch on the shoulder.

That was all of it, and I guess it's not very interesting to the general populace.

I will fit together in clumps.

In the present day, I write in blank books: "I do not have to be remembered fondly, or at all" over and over again, and what an enormous burden that seems to lift.
I can be a year or two of scenery, and then disappear to other settings.

Memories seem like fiction to me, most of the time. Only the present is real to me. It's like I stop believing in the moments once they are passed. They are faint images and faint feelings, and that's all. Sanctified by the notion that they never seemed to have happened. Holy infernal memories. Most of them have sunk out of comprehension. There are only scraps here and there.

In the Spring of 1998 I wrote down the word "amnesoid".

Starting then, two more people that do not remember me fondly or at all. I figured that was the way to go.

-

Or I am tired and delirious. On the edge of sleep, sometimes I remember things that never happened. There is a pressure in my throat like guilt. There is no word for that pressure.

All of these things are unrelated, for a split-second I think it is winter outside.