whiskeyandgoatsmilk:

That’s it. That’s all I have to say. I hate most people.

firmuhment:

piscesinpurple:

You can’t imagine that you won’t remember the name of that Italian movie, the one that takes place right after the war, the one where soldiers who aren’t supposed to be soldiers are slogging through a marsh, not knowing who they’re supposed to shoot because nobody wears uniforms anymore, so they shoot everyone. 

You can’t imagine you’d forget the name of that boy, the one you purposely collided with at the ice rink so he’d talk to you, just for a minute. 

You can’t imagine that you’d remember that argument, the one you had with your best friend at the pool party, the one right after graduation, the one that was so bad you never really talked again even though you still miss her. You’d remember the argument itself, but not any of the details or any of the substance. You’d think it must’ve been important, some kind of dealbreaker, but really you’re just guessing because you do. not. know. 

The thing about being young is that you can’t imagine forgetting. You can’t imagine that you’d have to write things down or they’d be gone the next day. You can’t imagine that well before your child is old enough for kindergarten you’d forget which word it was, exactly, that was the very first one he ever spoke. 

You can’t imagine that in order to remember these moments you need to reach back into the past, close your eyes and recreate every detail still available. That you’d have to do this, and that you’d have to do it often. That you’d have to study. That your memory would require refreshment, as if the precious mental images that make up your history were not really all that different from the irregular French verbs you used to mutter under your breath, repeating and repeating and visualizing and repeating until you could - and did - recite them in your sleep. 

I review these things like I’m going to be tested on them later. The pale green taste of that grapefruit soda, the one I can’t get here in the States unless I go to Brooklyn. The smell of the carrot oil my son’s father used to smooth back his hair. What it felt like when my skin was never cold and the water in the pipe was always hot. How slowly the sun set and the way the sky looked like a broken egg yolk. The thickness of the island air that you can feel even before you step outside the airport. 

I study these details, I recall them often, I write them down and THAT is how I make them forever mine.