What all the fuss is about

I don’t know if people have timelines but Facebook leads me to believe everyone’s set on something, has a wish list, collection of targets, that they’re getting by 30, 5 or 7. I enjoy nodding when someone says something totally egotistical like it’s fact, like you’d be fucking ridiculous to not just have a kid at the earliest opportunity or buy a house if you’re offered deposits. You should be the type of person that commits willingly, instantly, eradicating doubt like a Christian, convincing the vicar before they’ve convinced themselves that Baptism’s what they want. This is what you want. This is it.

But I call bullshit. The moments I knew what I wanted, I forget most of them, and the ones I remember are inconsequential; when my heart and decision-making abilities were in someone else’s rental and their cut-off policy of whether to be or not be together was a television switch and they chose another channel.

And if we’re all on the same playing board, even if directions are different, and dice rolls can crisscross as much as they’re linear, then I must be under the fucking board, and I see what everyone’s doing, and every single picture posted about it on Twitter. I can hear the dug paths over head, but in the almost dark, I don’t remember which direction my playing piece was going in and why. Why is the worst, the unanswerable, part.

I dream about you most when we don’t speak. And I like the dreams. It’s the closest we’ve been in a long time. I don’t know what it means, and any guess is pieced from a Dawson’s monologue. And all that Sex and the City watching is only helpful in knowing life’s a mess, and the questions asked each episode contradict the next. A difference in opinion is helpful in the sifting. A barrage-like deciding factor.

I carried you like the chronicity I didn’t know I had for five years, fifteen, ten, or less. I buried you best I could. Like a patio grave even the rain can dislodge. And I knew, honestly, I did, one day I’d deal with it. When I saw you across the street, or in a shop, down a different aisle, I knew I’d deal one day. Just not that day.

And these timelines. Do you have one? What’s on it? Do you ever wish you could shop it, donate it with things which don’t fit, frames you don’t have photos for, now? That you could get off board, just for a while, shut that noise like expensive earplugs almost do? Because I wish all the time. But wish is a lot like prayer, isn’t it? Wasted thought, statuses without any likes. Ha, you know how that is.

There’s no timeline. Not a rational one, anyway. Nothing worth sharing anywhere, with anyone, not without raising an eyebrow chain across all people I’d ever met. And you’d met. Friend.

5 years

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