That honda civic


He never had a name. For he was never yours. He was to be shared. Not to be owned.

Why couldn’t you let my thoughts rest? Begging to be written. Begging even, when to write was beyond me. Though the words won’t come. And the prince is as elusive as ever. 

The memory wants to be freed. To be released. And by its release… what now? Does it leave me in peace? Will it silence these demons? A memory of so long ago. It turns up everywhere now. And I could push it down, bury it alive, yet it claws and persists. I hope that by acknowledging its presence, its intrusion, it will finally cease to exist and let me be.

What are you even torturing me for? Why do you plea for a recall? For a recollection? Such bitter – tasting memories. Yet… it wasn’t all bad. It wasn’t even bad. Only towards the end. Mayhaps one day I shall tell the world a tale.

What kind of a writer am I? My style is of old. I do not belong with all these contemporary writers.

I get distracted still. A side of me wants to free the memory but not to dwell on it. Another part of me wants to relive it. And yet another part is stoic.

What is the memory? Maybe I oughta start. Once upon a time we had fun. And his car played a part in it all. Just as mine had.

Remember when you used to pick me up from school? Or just hang at my house? In the dead of night.

It’s barely there. Those memories. It’s like grasping at smoke or a fog. Chasing a ghost.

I want to remember but I can’t. I may have buried this one too deep.

Why do I write? Knowing that none will find this online raving, this ranting of mine.


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