I read something this morning. It struck me. It made me realise that sometimes our fondest places aren’t where but a who.
If you could go anywhere in the world right now, would it be to a “where” or to a “who”?
Now tell me that somewhere, someone didn’t spring into mind. Tell me a memory didn’t strike you down as you sit reading it; maybe you’re on a train, or in a cafe, on a sofa at home. It doesn’t matter where you are because you’re really somewhere else. You’re somewhere in a memory reliving that moment. The one that haunts you. That turns you on. That warms you to your core. Whatever it is. Where ever you are, that’s it. That’s the place you’d go to given the chance.
There’s only one place mind went to. One perfect evening that left a mark on me. That’s left me, I dare say, a little bit broken. I know nothing will compare to that evening on a beach in California, with my best friend and perfect strangers.
Was it the beach I would go back for? No, it could have been any starlit beach from Brighton to Baia Do Sancho.
Was it the fact it was California; tropical and foreign? Perhaps to a point. Being in a foreign place always gives an urge to do the reckless.
Was it the strangers company? The irresistible kiss that I remember every time I touch my lips? Everytime the oppouritunity for another lovers kiss arises? The sensation of being numb to thought. The way our bodies just seemed to fit. His coarse hands on my waist. My arms around his neck. Not caring where this was going. Not caring if I was getting too wrapped up in it. The beautiful innocence of thinking everything was set.
Yes. Yes exactly that. I would go back to that very moment, for everything to be exactly like that. I have no moment to compare that to. It was perfect. I mean perfect in that exact sense. I am not exaggerating or over indulging my opinions. It was like a storybook scene. “A perfect Californian story”.
The anguish and regret that has followed should have tainted it, and yet it hasn’t. Maybe I’m a glutton for pain. Maybe I’m just stupid. But I would go back to him. I want to feel alive like that again.
The time might come again. Soon actually. I am going back to him. To Washington state this time where he is living. I’m getting the opportunity to feel alive. To be consumed by all the twisted emotions he must know he’s causing me. I say it like this because I know he doesn’t feel the same. He’s an actor by nature. I’m a pawn to practice his skills on.He perfected the scene. The story was there. The dialogue flowed. He stage kissed me so believably…even I fell for it. I wonder if he did. I wonder if he can…
No! No he can’t. It isn’t possible. It doesn’t even matter. The thing is that I would go back every single time to that evening. And I think I will until…until another movie scene can be played out with me.
I want to know if ts just me though. Is it just me? Am I the only fool that would go back to a person rather than a place. I’d rather feel his hands on me, rather than sit on that beach in the dark. It wouldn’t be so special alone.
So where did you go when you read it? Where or who were you with?