I'm sentimental about many things: the metallic smell of the air after the first snow, the first day of your period, that book that you can't finish because will break your heart immensally for no reason, a day to forget.
A day to forget.
I want it. The day I read someone's intimacy. That I felt apart for not being in it. The day I felt sober after my first breakup. The day I didn't feel sober at all. The day my parents bought my flight tickets. The day I crushed at that strange foreign language High School. The day they made me speak. The day I scaped from my first kiss going down the fire exit. The day I felt not belonging anywhere. The day I promissed to never fall in love again. The day I did. The day I declared myself. The day I exposed my privacy. The day I asked to return. The day I wanted. The day I ignored. The day I thought nothing was wrong. The day I understood.
For many of us, celebrate what we like about life is love. But what if love means let someone's life interfer? On the other hand, the idea of forgetting about something that really interfers in your relation with someone makes the object of the sentence become the subject. Confusion. There's nothing wrong. But there's a friendship, an interfering love. Where I can't see myself included.
I'm left feeling that the only choices are being violently idealistic, and you can't tell which is worst. The day to forget.
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Once I found this unread letter from my grandpa at his desk, after his death: "Love your art above all things, and have the courage wich I did not have, to starve to death rather than prostitute your talents". I really don't think he meant it. But if he did, he's the reason of my mocking dreams.
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