I used to float six inches off the ground, I was too weightless to ever be hurt.
And I never knew the truth about untrue until I saw you in his shirt.
It's always small things that break you open, they're the only things sharp enough
The soft goodbye brush of your hand upon my face, your world exploding touch"
(Fat Lady Sings - World Exploding Touch)
Why chase the past? It hurts too much when you do. Looking up the people you cared about so long ago, finding they've all moved on. But you've moved on too, so why does it still give you that weird, melancholy, "jesus, if things had been different..." feeling. And the stupid part is that you know it's going to hurt, so why do it?! Why does that loose thread of past, that "I wonder what happened to so-and-so...", that "maybe she's still around..." pick at the back of your mind from time-to-time, to the point where you just have to go looking. It's all to easy to look these days, the million and one social networking sites mean you're never more than a few degrees, a few clicks and whistles, a few nanoseconds of perspiration from someone.
And you look, and you find, and it makes your guts turn to jelly and your head hurt.
Why is nothing ever finalised, nothing ever put down, and no-one ever fully banishable from your life? Why are there so few people who come and go without leaving a blazing hot red scar across your consciousness? The ones who truly get close, who have the power to both cheer you up and screw you up in a single turn, can't ever be truly got rid of. Blessings and curses all rolled into one.
I speak, of course, of old girlfriends, of lost flings, of romances that were and romances that should have been, of loves both unrequited and modestly consummated, and of the small number of beautiful, attractive, intelligent, nice smelling ladies who have sauntered their way into my life and seared their mark across the back of my eyeballs.
To that small, select group, who forever have my unfading attention, my everlasting respect, and the eternal ability to turn a full grown, healthily bearded man into a gibbering, ranting, lovesick idiot at 20 paces, I bow, raise a small glass of something mildly intoxicant, and profess my undying love. Silently.
I have some issues to work out. Normal shonky service will be resumed whenever.