The Timetables of How Much I Miss You

I remember,

All the time.

Truth is, my mind is a Time Machine, in existence, all the time.

I remember that I was born at the dawn of the millennium, May 9th.

And I remember soon after, years barely beginning to glimpse; something, somethings, caught my eye.

Starting at only two I’d go to my Dad’s laptop, type plane pictures, and voilà: airliners.net

It would take some more time, when double digits began rolling in, and then Wikipedia showed me current flights and current airlines, now and then.

Reference links would uncover archives, written anthropological footage of routes and airliners and airlines, developing or defunct.

Today I thought, when I was one; the then largest airline in Switzerland ordered the newest and longest at-the-time French-produced long-ranger in the world.

“Swiss A340-600”, said a civil aviation forum subject page, set to be ready by the same year or next.

9/11 happened, 7-ELEVEN became a morbid anecdote,

“2002” Nigerian Airlines’ A340-500 hypothesized for nonstop Lagos to Sydney service.

This week, I had re-immersed myself to my happy world, of aviation and ethically-sourced/creatively makeshift hedonism and narrated spooky or smutty stories.

Today, and the days preceding and following, I’ve come back home, inner nomad and creature of comfort, couch potato and wanderer merging.

I grew aware of what inspired a longing gaze in retrospect, and what I was chasing became clear.

I missed this,

I missed being in my own happy fantastical whimsical world, I missed life before and around 18, I missed when everything felt manageable and out of reach.

It’s Winter.

And I remember, four winters then, fentanyl became the new cyanide, a staple became the new razor blade.

Sometimes in reasonable proximity of the anniversary, I think about it, and sometimes randomly.

I’m sure you can gather today.

Today was an instance of when I remembered, that on March 20th, all those years then, decades crossing over; there was a plan, set a month before, the plan to say goodbye.

Ironically, an earlier than expected reason lobbed into my life on a leading Monday instead.

Wailing a trash bin into the corner, followed by a utility tool that could have very well been a cause of death, unexpected circumstances may have been what saved me, or the voice of blue bringing me back to the room, “What are you doing?”

I still wrestle with the plan; solemn surrender overlooking the sea, suspenseful tremolo.

Through all those years of docu-dramatized tragedy recounts, maritime stories, and learning about oblivion through one’s hands, albeit lightheartedly, far too early, and growing a morbid fascination with which once I was far enough along in adolescence, I’m starting to see the murky dark waters that leaked within, begging to be repurposed into the ocean.

The Golden Gate romantics phenomenon was brimming and tingling with activity.

And sometimes it is oblivion that brings peace and wishes people free.

Will I ever stop missing then, will I ever stop wishing I succeeded then, will I ever consistently breathe and glow glee again, will I ever, will I ever, will I ever!

But then, hunches came, showed me pictures of deserts and produce and forested lands of solitude, hands clicking the keys that arranged for me to return to where I last adjacently cultivated me in 2018.

Seven long years, my life path number is supposed be a blessing to make a wish.

Am I the anti-peas and rice, warrantably free of Messianic tells.

Why do I still grapple with the desperate question if I’m a monster, when I’m clearly an angel.

Empathy and self-reflexion and conscientiousness aren’t necessarily for being hallmarks of having no heart.

If anything they are heart led.

What is this feeling of “how dare I” that I kept meeting at the grocery store, the meat market and many hors d’oeuvres.

I remember childhood moments of waltzing pristine choices of gender fluidity, turtle necks glistening iridescent soft metals, section with zero regard.

I think about Fresh Choice, and ironically a second preceding about pickles, and know there’s always a fresh start, in every instance, around the corner when listening to my hunches.

I may have worn and still wear my foreshadows, but nonchalantly walk with my dreams, the bird flipping behind to signify a great day it is, knowing that forward is here.

I love the rainbow, and am the rainbow; and after tasting many rainbows, I’m starting to know which arc-en-ciels I cherish

Rainbows ironically resurrect sunny days in the midst or near the breach of a on/downpour of rain.

Much as I soak in the showers, same goes with the rays and hues.

I do not come from upbringings whom cherish magpies or leprechauns, and at some point, learned to stop ascribing to cartoonish make-belief, St. Nicholas is a trick, “there is no tooth fairy idiot.”

But there are gift givers, purely kind or affectionate acts, publicly announced or done from the shadows.

In the words of Anna Ferris, I don’t ‘play’ “with a crucifix,”

But I also don’t become a butterfly in pursuit of ambrosia every time a fabric of rainbow comes into view, or maybe I do.

I just remember, how natural whimsy and curiosity and euphoria is, when did it become so twisted, when did it become so petrified.

I blew into a tissue, blood read, “thank you.”

I remembered, nomadic house sitting is my train ticket.

When I was 18, I wanted to become an influencer, every prodigy’s parents’ worst nightmare, an internalized hierarchy of intelligence ‘wasted’, or rather released.

Finally, I gathered the courage to get up, and take the train to wherever I was meant to be, experiencing whatever I was sensing to be, next.

The timetables cannot save me, only I can bring me forward, together.

And now, we’ve started.

I spread my wings, and now, cresting the surface of the bay as the Sun gleams midday, and now the cocoon was gone.

Away went all that was aloof and for control, in came and comes all that is care