I listen to Dad’s old music – what I can find of it. Grandma however, didn’t share her music with us because she thought we wouldn’t like it. So I have no music to remember her by, except for the song I was listening to on repeat the day that she died, which happened to be ‘Month of Sundays’ by Metronomy. This was probably the most emotionally salient day of my life. It is funny how different things stand out to you depending on your mood at the time. Then, I was struck by the lyrics “I see we were similar, but I’ve never thought much about it” and the part “We’d skip and laugh,
I hold her hand” in an idyllic fantasy imagination. I realised after Grandma died how similar I was to her, how much I take after her. Now I have been trying to change and to escape things connecting me to them. Although I don’t want to escape, I want to be right back there, with them. Time is a place. It is a place I could be running around trying to find forever. Trying to find in all locations of the present and future, trying to find the place in time where the past will come back again.
The other ay I absent-mindedly wrote the teenth of February 2015, because my head is still stuck there, trapped there. The final months of bliss, of normality. My head is still stuck there suspended in a timelessly hanging present moment that is now falling further and further into the distant past. My head is stuck in the idyllic past whilst the world around me marches into the ever-changing new present moment that is filled with a different reality and absent of two of the people that made me happy and whom I loved the most. How will I ever enjoy a world without them I wonder? I still crave to see them in the past with every fibre of my heart. I daydream and nightdream about seeing them. It’s driving me crazy and I think I am crazy.
This is why I feel half asleep and half real in this world. This new world without them. I try to remember them, even though they’re imprinted on the back of my mind like a black stamp. I try to bring them back to life through their otherworldly spirit – their music, their future (present) wishes, their morals and values.
I am halfhearted. I try to love and live the present and I am half listening when you talk.
The other half of me wonders if I should indulge in my daydreams of the past and write stories about the past written in the present tense so it is a real world I can endorse myself in again. Lose myself to the fictitious-real past that exists in my memory and in my memory only.
I obsess over the days they died and they turned from present to past. A change of tense and of being here then not. Life is out of synch, once together, I now live in another time and place where they do not.
I think I ought to write about them whenever the back of my head knocks on the door of my frontal lobe, and I feel another wave of longing for them. Maybe writing about them is the only way to process their absence, and my continuing love without continuing life accompanying it. Because at the moment I am still gripped by the past and I’m out of touch with the present and life still feels unreal and blurry.