Memories of You

I woke up today in awareness of the Sun - I sensed its boiling heart seething. I felt the sun circling around my life. Around my past memories, it rolls around carelessly.

Grant Fitzgibbions. There are memories so comforting to me, so warm and stoned and a little hazy in the summer. There is my friend's house - James - he had great, blue, ocean eyes with lashes that curled up into his brow. We'd get stoned and sit in a circle on the back porch. It can't be said for certain what anybody talked about. But in the air of the memory there is an eternal freedom. There is a youthful arrogance. There was my long hair and a cigarette and an inescapable feeling of endless possibility.

And when I sit with this memory, I am weighted by it's lightness. I am sobered by the idea of Grant, having moved out to Los Angeles. The weight and tedium of listlessness. The tiresome days of work and class. The frustration of not having been published.

All the while, the sun circles around like a prison guard. Always on the clock.