missing

9/26/2015 – Day Twenty – Nine.

I thought about her for the first time in years. It was bound to happen. When you stop being friends with someone, you pretend they don’t exist. You wish them well and go on with your life. Maybe it was the reconnecting with my favorite band, but for the first time I could say her name without negativity attached behind it. Without feeling any aspect of animosity toward her. Where I didn’t feel any hatred, I felt nothing. Dare I say, I felt a hint of sadness? I don’t know.  I get these moments in my life where I believe for a second I can be friends with people from my past. Retain that sense of friendship if only for nostalgic purposes. I have to be honest, I miss people. However, I don’t miss the drama, I don’t miss the lies, etc.

For the first time I felt no animosity toward the past. Where I wanted to let bygones be bygones and sit and talk about everything and in-between. Growing up is harder than it looks. Some of us grow up and change, while others can’t help but remain the same. Here I thought I was the grown up that I had been the one growing up, when in reality I am the one struggling to change. Growing up means letting go of all the hatred and animosity of the past, but I couldn’t do it. Its like I remember why it started, why it happened, and I can’t change the past. I can’t go back and change words or reactions. In the past I had this desperation to be someone else and it never happened. Instead I stayed the same person I had always been. I don’t remember where this desperation to be someone happened. Somewhere between here and there, I forgot what it felt like to be myself. I find the guilt of my own problems seep into this nostalgia, and sometimes I wish I still had someone to talk about the past with.

We were those crazy kids. Those crazy kids that would run at every chance to be in a big city. Small town girls with big city dreams. One of us stayed a dreamer and the other grew up in reality. I am surrounded by reality but it’s the dreaming that still haunts me. The older I get the more I wish I could just ask you a million different things. I wonder if certain things still bother you that did back then. Little things, big things, stupid insignificant things.  I wonder if it bothers you that people are married that probably shouldn’t be. I wonder if it bothers you that the same people are having kids who said they wouldn’t. Who said they only wanted to with you. Because sometimes it bothers me, and I guess I just wonder if it bothers you too.

I know we grow up and become even less of our former selves, but I can’t help but wonder. Nostalgia has a funny way of letting you down. Making you remember things and people as they were, only in memory. Some days I wonder what I would do if I saw you again. I know I wouldn’t do a thing. If I saw you on the street, I would forget you just the same. We are not those crazy kids anymore. If we were still friends after all these years, we would have found a way to drift apart.  Sometimes I miss you and I know I shouldn’t. But sometimes when I hear a song, or hear a funny story, or see someone from our past, I can’t help but laugh. We grew up and I finally understand now. In order to grow up we have to let go of our nostalgia to make way for our reality. We had to drift apart to be who we need to be. I am still searching and you’ve already found yourself.

I understand now, just sometimes I miss you and I don’t know why.

 

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Cigarettes & Coffee.

I miss smoking and I know I shouldn’t.

Before I get a million lectures on the subject, let me say it out in the open, I miss it. I miss the ritual of it. The lighting, the inhaling and the slow exhaling. I miss the solidarity of the moment. How you could be surrounded by hundreds of people, but when you needed an escape the cigarette was your alibi. It relaxed you and calmed the shakes that trembled from your chest to your fingertips. The moment you tapped your first pack and took off its wrapper, it opened something inside of you. The smells of tobacco and the memories a smell holds with it. This familiarity that something so bad could make the worries of the moments disappear.

Inhale, exhale.

I disappeared in every smokey haze. Hiding from the world without a moments notice. The countless conversations I reasoned with myself with every puff I gave. Its something I never got with breathing. A sensation that never felt obtainable with just the air in my lungs. I loved it, then hated it. I denied it, then craved it. Something to take the edge of life, off of my hands. I could disappear in this cloudy, smokey, haze. Disappear into the smoke, where no one would find me. Have a moment with myself that I could never get with the open air and clear views.

I miss cigarettes like I miss conversations. Because all the meaningful conversations happen outside at night around 1 am, with the street lights illuminating your smoke. Your mouth slowly forming words and phrases. I miss that. This smell that stuck to every inch of your skin and lingered over all your overcoats. Breathing in the cold air and flowing inside every inch of your lungs. I felt it like a breaking heart, like a sad song with an upsetting melody. My body craves it on the dark days when I have nothing left to say. But it’s bad. It’s all bad for me. The ash, the smoke and the light that burns until I have nothing left.

I feel stuck. Finding something to take away the craving. Locating the thing I can sit with to find a single word of conversation. I could stare into the bottom of every cup of coffee. I could sit and stare for hours at the water that dyes every inside of every cup. I feel nothing, I crave something more. After ever last drop of coffee, nothing gives you satisfaction as that last drag of a cigarette.

God, I miss it. I miss it.

1/3/2015