So many of the women that I write about fade from memory. To be honest, I would have forgotten so many of the details if it weren’t for me writing them down, they’d just be a stored contact on my phone. There is something undeniable about something new that takes over your mind, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. Nostalgia has a way of distorting the past, making it rosier than it actually was, more importantly making it fuzzy around the edges, losing the fine details of what made it memorable in the first place. You end up holding onto a feeling, and little hidden reminders that take you back to that moment. That interplay between the here and now against what has gone before is this ever natural system that hangs over my romantic life. Every new romance feels like the first with me, and in a way that diminishes it, because if everything feels new, then everything is the same.
You know most of my stories. Boy meets Girl. Boy finds something endearing about Girl. Boy does something stupid. Boy does something cute to recover. Boy and Girl go on date and it ends on a hopeful note. You’ll realize that most of stories never have a real ending. The beginnings are always more fun, because falling for someone is better than getting over someone. Because at the core of romance is hope, and we want to feel hopeful. We connect with hope, and want to see where hope leads, and yet being alone again is something that we all know too well, and reading it just doesn’t resonate in quite the same way.
I had known this for a while, and that’s why there would be such long breaks between posts sometimes. If I’m used to writing about new, then I have to find something to feel new about. I’ve never been that good at making the mundane seem extraordinary, I can only communicate how I feel, and I had become jaded to that feeling of something new, however contradictory that may sound.
Immediacy makes things hard to forget, but that’s simply because you see it in your mind’s eye over and over again. It’s hard to explain, and maybe I’ll never be able to explain it, but recently I’ve been telling myself to actually remember. As many times as the memory plays in my head, I want to commit as many details as I can, however I can. The shade of lipstick she wore, the terrible fake wood paneling that was behind her. And the timbre of her laugh when I tell a horrible joke, and then how she throws her head back giggling when I actually get to her. More importantly, how her hair draped over my shoulder when she gently rested her head there, and how it felt when she told me that I mattered to her.
It’s easy now because it’s new. I want it to be easy now, I want it to be easy a month from now, a year from now, ten years from now. I want to remember the details because she matters to me. That might seem callous, to be seemingly dismissive of all the other women before, but that’s not my intention. I remember those women as well, but I remembered the idea of them. Maybe if I had been more attentive, more focused, I would have remembered them for who they were, instead of simply the thought of them.
Because at the end of the day, those stories were fun moments, lonely moments, and many things in between. But when you find a woman that does more than just make for a cute story, it’s different. You want to share it with the world, and yet you don’t, because it’s delicate. But that’s the beauty about writing, about putting your thoughts down, reaching out to someone that might feel just the same way. But more importantly, it reminds me to remember the song that was playing, the way air smelled in the park that day, and so on and so on…