Being a Deadhead is like being a professional wine taster and collector. We can tell you the year just by the slightest taste, we all have our favourites and our least favourites. Everyone recognizes a fellow member off the first glance. But most of all, no matter the year, brand, or taste, we all love our wine.
I'll know it's love not when
I’ll know it’s love not when
we share the same interests,
but when you sacrifice time
for me because I am more
precious than the limited ticks
on the looming clock.
I’ll know it’s love not when
I shiver from your deft fingers,
lust mistaken for young love,
but when “I love you” is not
just three words strung
together for my reassurance.
I’ll know it’s love not when
plastered smiles are forced
rather than from your heart,
but when I am intellectually
challenged and where you don’t
have to agree with all I say.
I’ll know when I’m in love
and that is not now.
Peter Pan went back to Wendy’s room, like how he entered her life for the very first time sixty years ago. He suddenly felt pain again from a very long time.
He did not grow up because he kept himself in Neverland, enjoying time for he never grew old.
Yet Wendy, the lovely and beautiful Wendy he met before, the one who used to tell them fascinating stories, was there, lying on her white bed, asleep, weak. Her skin was already crumpled and soggy, as if life has left her. There was still her radiance but it was obviously dimmer, much dimmer than before.
She was dying.
And so Peter Pan kissed her cheeks. Wendy was still cradled in her sleep, maybe she’s dreaming about wonderful adventures and even, maybe, Peter Pan.
And so Peter Pan left. That’s the saddest part of never growing up, he said to himself. He would usually see the people he love dying and leaving the mortal plain. He got used to it.
Maybe, but not with Wendy, his first love. He realized that love does not need to be undying, or eternal, because no matter what, someone would leave in one way or another. He realized that what’s important in love is growing old together - going through thick and thin, living a life together.
But Peter Pan wanted to stay young and Wendy wanted to grow old. They both took their paths away even though they love each other.
As Peter Pan leave, Grim Ripper entered the room.
And Peter Pan never grew old.
People who don't remember their childhoods are weird to me*
And my BF is one of them. To me, it’s like…wow, there’s this whole huge portion of your life that’s just…missing. And I guess it doesn’t seem weird for them at all.
One the one hand, I do realize that my development was unusual to say the least, since I began to speak at 6 months old and could read and write before I was 2, and I think that probably had some effect on my ability to form memories.
But like…everything from my childhood was so very there, so many people and places and things and sights and sounds. Everything was so immediate and tangible. There are conversations I can remember verbatim, like when a friend-cousin and I held an impromptu funeral for a snail, the time my cousin-cousin wrote all over her toys with a marker and tried to blame it on ME when I was 2 and she was 3 1/2, The time me and my next-youngest sister decided to make soup out of grass (the broth was reminiscent of seaweed soup but the grass was too tough to actually chew-otherwise quite tasty), The boy who sold his mother’s tamales door-to-door and made quite a tidy profit, buying mangos from the ice cream man and having sticky elbows from the juice dripping, the fucked up personalities of our friends’ parents, the time we found a box of kittens whilst dumpster-diving, and like…everything. An entire life.
It’s so weird to talk to people who seem to have sprung mostly fully-formed from the foam like Venus or something. The same way it’s weird to talk to people who don’t dream, or dream about video games or movies only. For me it’s like, “But how do you function without being able to visit with your loved ones who have passed or just passed out of your life? How do you know who you are if you don’t know who you used to be? How do you know you’re really here if you’re never anywhere else?”
Maybe this is part of why it’s so hard for me to understand other people.
*excludes people who don’t remember their childhoods because of abuse. That’s a whole other thing.
She is My Four Season
Like the cold winter, you leave me with frost bites and goosebumps. Like the snow that is falling from above, you kiss my cheeks with every pieces of snowflakes. You made me realize how weak I can become by having you, yet, I prefer to see your beauty that covers the horizon in sheets of whiteness - innocence and purity - and that is beautiful.
Like the blooming flowers and the buzzing bees, I would always see you radiating through the crowd of people. You are the loveliest dandelion in the spring fields where we used to roll over and have some fun. Your voice is like the chirps of the birds cracking through the window pane. You make me alive.
Like the sun glimmering above, casting down rays of sun light all over my body, you are always there. You are my fortitude, the vast ocean that covers the hollowness and emptiness in me. Like the nostalgic peak of a summer day, you make me reminisce all of the moments we have shared together, and thus, you became a part of my memory. A fire that melts my frozen soul and icy heart.
Like the falling leaves from the maple tree, your tears seem to flow like gushes of incandescent low flames. Like blood that the trees forgot to shed. You are the yellow-orange painting of a wall left undone in a morbid forest. Gloomy, yet radiating. You are my downfall, and your good bye is my forever sadness.