This time last year, the same date I think, I told someone in a
drunken ramble that, “I pride myself on my impotence, er,
independence.” That is exactly what I said. I can remember
word-for-word what it was I said a year ago, but not who I was talking
with when I said it. I remember the song that was whispering fuzzy
through a radio close by, but not who it was I was talking to. Isn’t
that funny?
I thought so at least.
Anyway, this time last year, I felt my greatest strength was the fact
that I could live without anyone close to me, just wallow in my
loneliness and I would be okay. I said that then and I guess it was
true.
I met you after that, not very long after that, either. We spent every
minute together that we could spend together, you remember. And there
was that night we climbed that hill and drank wine and saw the
fireworks exploding over all the city lights, remember? Of course you
do, what am I thinking. You said it amazes you that each of the lights
has its own purpose. I think about that time a lot, actually. It’s one
of my favorites, you know. But I think you knew that.
I need you here right now. I need you here anytime, but mostly right now.
Christ! Sorry, I rolled over my toe with this godforsaken chair.
I mean sure, I’ve got my bed and my blankets and some to spare, but
it’s not the same. Warmth. You had this warmth about you. When my
knees were all folded under your knees, and my arms wrapped around the
whole of you, it was just
fucking
warm.
It’s so damn cold here.
I don’t mean to curse but god damn if it’s not cold here.
And quiet. I haven’t heard a sound other than myself for two hours
now, maybe three. I never talked to myself before I met you, but now
it’s all I do. Talk and talk like someone’s listening. But you aren’t.
Are you? No. What am I thinking.
Who was it that I was talking to that night last year? Was it you? No.
Yes? I don’t fucking know. Sorry, I don’t mean to curse.
(illustration by Stanley Donwood)
Josh is a friend. And Josh found tunetheproletariat some way somehow and we are grateful to offer his writing proudly like a peacock’s feathers.