Mckenzee was just saying yesterday that he finds it wonderful how much life is documented here and I agree. Little windows into the world, it’s fascinating. Doug is getting married and Sarah left town on Alix. I’m touched by both of these, and I may never meet them. When I do start traveling, this place may decide my itinary. How splendid might it be to visit everyone who matters on your friends list. These people you know through text and image only. Meet thier husbands, smell the paint in thier studios, have the cat you’ve seen in so many pictures curl up in your lap as you sip some tea, rain pounding down outside in a way utterly different than where you’re from. I think there could be a slight feeling of awe. We live in a world where this is possible, where we meet these people, where these connections exist. It’s what I want, it’s what is here. How lunatic to meet people over the internet, to give them our image, our personal information. How breath-takingly joyous.
You people are more real than my neighbors.
I came across the line every time I lose a girl today on my friends page. The thought of losing a girl lets me into an image of forgetting her behind on the subway, like a bag or a book. Just a girl, sitting emptily and you see her through the windows and the door whishes shut and you yell for a second, but there’s nothing you can do. You try and catch the train, but you never find her again. She never comes home. Every day for the next three months you remember her, sitting with her hands in her lap, hands curled together on her green skirt you got her for her birthday. She laughed and insisted on putting it on, right there in the park next to the basketball court. You reached up to help her wiggle out of her pants when she got caught and she looked down at you on the red plaid blanket and said ‘thank you’. It broke you, remembering her in that skirt. Her laughter, however cliche, was like bells to you. It chimed. The light was yellow when you lost her. It was night and the only light was from inside the train. Sallow light on her rich hair, but still she was beautiful. The tips of it brushing her shoulders, you had been secretly delighting in watching her that night. Wanting to run your fingers through that hair, to brush it from her face before kissing her. It was going to be a deep kiss too, and now it’s The Kiss. Your entire relationship shifting to center on the Kiss That Never Was, because she never came home. Lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, you imagine her sometimes still on the train, going around and around. One day you’ll step on a car to find her there, sitting, waiting for you.