Light-Hearted

Someone said to me a few days ago, "Wow, Naz, you must have been really something to have gotten her. She's gorgeous."

She was half-right. And not about me.

Been about two weeks now, and it seems to get a little more difficult, but a little less painful each day. Hard to explain really, but the littlest of things have jogged my mind back to things long gone, things I never would have remembered if recent events hadn't come to pass.

I remember writhing, prone, in a decrepit ambulance in Thailand with a metal spoon in my mouth.

I remember waiting alone, watching the baggage conveyor belt thing in the airport for familiar faces.

I remember reading through pages and pages of Karl Marx and other sociologists, who all seem to share a common trait of not being able to write in succint sentences, though we as students are told we should.

I remember standing, bewildered and out of place in places of flashing lights and inebrieted others, but having a point of focus to ignore the crowd around me, jostling with the smell of musk and alcohol and intoxication.

I remember rings and pendants, bracelets and watches, wallets and bears, poems and postcards, cards and cakes.

I remember sneaking around and plotting little escapades, silently in the darkness, trying not to make a sound then and later.

I remember the slow process of removing the fear of kittens, jumpy and playful, harmless yet terrifying, and the way the purrs warmed my heart.

I remember serenades, cracking and ridiculous, heartfelt and embarassing, joyful and sincere.

I remember a bouquet of orange roses, twenty-three, tinged in red along soft petals.

I remember dashing from the stands, eyes wide as silence descended on the hockey pitch after the ball suffered and unfortunate deflection, and the trip to the dentist after.

I remember trips to the zoo, the science centre, both with and without the kids.

I remember all the photographs and how I was taught to smile.

I remember the thrill of being behind the wheel, taking control of your destination without having to be controlled by a magnetic strip and the way the vehicle jolted when the taxi hit it.

I remember picnics, frisbee, broken slippers and sandy meals.

I remember the stupid, hilarious things I used to hear about CAT Scans and Facebook.

I remember the feeling when likewise opinions of 300, The Mist and The Sixth Sense were shared.

I remember shirts and shoes and bags and watches and books and frames and that final haircut that wasn't a haircut.

I remember nearly retching at all the bad places discovered, and belching content at all the good places revisited.

I remember discussions about religion, politics, morality, life, money, love.

I remember how it was originally out of pity.

I remember playing games together, on a board and on-line, pieces and pixels, cracking heads and racking headshots.

I remember secretly gathering stories and well-wishes, messages from friends new and old.

I remember the different ways hair could be styled, his and hers.

I remember that one baby's birthday party surrounded by strangers, and shopping for a suitable gift prior to that.

I remember the view, clad in bathrobes and close together, wishing the checkout time was furthur away.

I remember the pager, the intrepid call to an obsolete device from a boy too out of his depth to realise what he was getting himself into.

I remember laughing together at the man in woman's clothes, and hoping he/she/it didn't pick on me.

I remember not being able to cry any more.

I remember football, playing with and watching, smiling at the clumsy attempts.

I remember the smiling grandmother, mee goreng reeking of awesomeness.

I remember sighing, being dragged into Topshop or Mango or Zara or Forever 21 "just to look".

There are many things I've remembered recently, which is surpising considering that those who know me best will attest that my memory is only slightly more impressive than that of a goldfish. Last night I had a great time with some friends, doing something that I would not have normally, and another thing I do too much of. Both were incredibly entertaining, though perhaps they made me... remember more.

Most of you reading this will understand the bulk of what I've been referring to, but I hope no-one comes up to me anytime soon and demands to know if I am emo. I'm not. Don't take this as anything else than me just expressing what's been on my mind recently. It's not regret or pangs of guilt or emotions of yearning or feeling alone. Just memories, some sweeter than others and all dear to me.

I've always hated those who try and glorify their own emo feelings, to glamorise what they interpret as their own little ends of the worlds, perhaps they revel in the attention it invariably garners, like some others bask in drama or conflict or tension or chaos. I don't see the point, really. This isn't meant to be an emo post. In fact, I am currently in the midst of a discussion full of smileys with someone I haven't spoken enough to for a long time, and who I have a polaroid of. She's quite proud of herself that she maanged to convince me into taking a picture, some believe that a photograph of Naz is a rarity. I would disagree.

To those who have expressed concern in the past week or so, and I will admit that some of them have surprised me greatly, I do sincerely and honestly thank you for taking the time, but I'm good. I only hope that to you I'm as good a friend as you seem to me.

In a few hours popular media will have you believe that by switching off your lights for 60 minutes, you will be voting for our planet, perhaps in some sort of galactic idol competition. I'm not sure if my lights will be switched off, but perhaps I'll spend some time in the dark remembering other times in the dark, and how bright they were.