Gavin Swartz-Barnes

Mrs. Mounts
Creative Writing
Sept. 5th, 2019
A
Little there is to know about anything anymore. Many passing faces exist - living seconds
in the present and void in the past. Names are just faces with extra meaning though there be little
left to assign. The past names had more meaning - that’s what you think, of course you do.
You’d like to believe that it was true, but it really is just you. There’s plenty of shadows left to
explore, but for some reason there is no motivation left. The battery has run dry and the lightning
cable is torn from all the times that you stay up at night and try to remember the things that you
had forgotten.
Outward bounds give you hope that it will get better. No one really knows if they will
though - nothing is for certain. It has to do with money and time though they are equivalently
exchanged. A song to listen to is the best feeling you’ve had in a long time though it’s strange to
believe that there used to be someone that used to fill that void for you. Much like the faces of
the present, they are gone now - what they once were is gone now.
People forget times that are insignificant - right? Who would forget the night where you
watched the beautiful wheel alone? Who would forget those beautiful hazelnut eyes on sunny
days? Memory has a funny thing that it does - like a computer, you forget to remember more.
The past is the teacher of all in an abstraction where lessons learnt are the reality that we
remember them to be - not what they actually were. Why don’t you forget her?
Given that everyone suffers, adding you to the pile isn’t the worst thing. You like to
doubt what you say and feel in an effort to be less compulsive - what does that say about your
confidence? Your favorite album is a reflection of the people you want the most to be there for
you, but you won’t accept that lonely roads never make it back to the highway. Dark rides home
under orange street lights remind you of the faintest times of hope of a future. When you get lost
in the dream there’s a pattern to the thoughts. They all lead back to here.
Call It Fate, Call It Karma, you are left once again to wonder where to look next. Your
eyes are drooping from the countless nights you spent looking at the blinking lines. Your back is
hurting from the way you slept last night. Your water is perspiring because there never was any
air conditioning here. Then you wonder; what amount of thought will finally move you? The
words get stuck in your head and a tiny arachnid pulls the strings, so they connect to everything
and anything. It doesn’t have to be correct, but to you it already is otherwise it wouldn’t have
happened. There’s truth to the steps of denial but you never get past step one.
The words of your best works are dedicated to thoughts left unacted upon and your
dreams of electric sheep are the same. You say you regret a lot things but that pile just gets
higher. The whir of man-made gospel rings your ears but eventually you forget that it was ever
there. Maybe that’s the problem.
I like to say sorry a lot, but how sorry can you really be when you don’t change?