Flood

It's back again.

That flood, that nuisance.
That flood of inconsequence, of every fleeting moment that you wish you could reclaim, if only to destroy. As if ownership would give you the power to smash every last second of these...memories.
These memories that flood, like the worst kind of flood in all of history. I don't suppose that there is a good kind of flood, really. A flood of delight? Violence is built into every last letter. F-L-O-O-D. It's syllable sits heavily in the air.

You sit there, with your memories of nothing, nothings that are everything to you and to who you have become. This...flood renders you incapable of normal conversation or natural observations of the current world, as you drown in the brush of his fingers and the whisper of promise from years ago.

I am too young for this. I am too old for it, as well, too old for this sort of melancholy, and entirely too young to have enough moments of nothing and everything to build a raging...flood.

As unhelpful, as stuck as it seems, all I want to do is float in this river of the recent past. I wish it to be different, I wish to take these memories in my hand and shape them and let them shape me into a being that is moving forward instead of with the current, like I have some control. Have you ever tried to hold water in your hand?
No control.

There is one thing that is for sure, as I stare at the sky above my watery post.
The waters will dry, the whispers and his fingertips will no longer sit staunchly in the front of every. single. thought. Every. single. smile. will not hide the moments that will never be again, no matter how sweet they once were. They have bittered with age, haven't they?
Haven't they?

Float on, wistfully, wistfully. Pragmatism will come with the wind-as incontrollable as this flood, perhaps, but more accepting of standing. I can stand here in the wind.