I know how this story ends.

What if I told you I have visions too.

That my dreams are not just dreams. That my memories are not of the past.

Would you believe me, or would you run away screaming? Thinking I was a madman; for telling you such nonsense; for keeping on living when I know what I know.

There are missing details to everything we see. I remember exactly how your lips felt against mine in our first kiss a year from now. I recall vividly how the blood stained the snow when I laid out in the woods, shot through the heart 13 years from now. But I never noticed where we were, when I touched your chin, looked into your eyes and kissed you with a smile. And though I spun my head around and around, I never saw who shot me down.

I have found that I am starting to remove myself from the world. Or, actually, redirect my attention to the world, might be a more precise phrasing. Since I found out what was going on: that my memories are yet to happen, I have been frustrated with all the things I don’t know about the future, rather than the things I do, and I have stopped looking at what’s in front of me; the glow in your eyes, the street lamps at night, the moving shadow as the train rides through the city at sunset. These things that used to be my entire world, these visions right in front of me, have lost their potency. I know what they will offer me, I know what they have to say.

The details. I have redirected my attention to all the details that usually go forgotten. Today I studied your windowsill instead of just glancing at it, and I learned that you’d rather have the things you want, than have things be the way you want them to be.

There has always been this feeling in my life that I never experienced anything new. But I just didn’t know where to look. Until now. The muddy details are where the truths are hidden, where understanding is possible. I have forever chased the things in front of me, when I should have looked sideways, should have smelled the air and asked a question about a common circumstance. I forgot to see when I looked, because I knew it all. I had seen it all before. It was just a rerun.

But the power of a rerun lies not in simple recognition, but in expansion of the already-known as we mix in our new impressions.

What was once a simple story becomes an atmosphere; an opportunity for action and telling – for being. It becomes a much larger medium for meaning. Whatever reason lies hidden in the details will open itself up when I look at it. It’s to the point where I can flip and turn the details, like sandy stones on a beach, and find the answers to my questions on their hidden undersides.

So when you kiss me, I will see you as clearly as ever, for your lips and your eyes, your hair, your fingers, the fragrance you always carry around in the wind, they have been imprinted in me since I first saw you in a dream.

But I will see so much more than that.

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