soraya

Remember when we were running in the grape fields, the sun was going down, there was mud along the rim of my boots. i picked the grapes off the vines, staining my hands, dark red running down my forearms. looked behind at you, over my shoulder. watching you watch the house. the mansion with the six old pristine shiny cars upstairs and the sixteen rooms and its all for show. thinking, im sure mister coppola could spare a few grapes, you rich bastard.

All i wanted to do was peel the flaking sanitarium green lead paint off the hospital walls. of what was his names cell. the birdman of alcatraz. in the cold dingy wet room. and the dark hallway in the hospital. and i ran in the dark, down the hallway, to the surgery room and tried to take a polaroid of the old shiny stainless steel operating table. and why was i really wondering that if i was to peel off the lead paint, and eat it. will it really give me cancer, and wouldnt the millions of toxins ive already consumed somehow already take care of that. and. really. really why am i being so compulsive.

And the sun was shining when we lay down under the wild apple tree with the bees swarming and the tall grass and the blanket and the feeling that we dont have to do anything, we dont have to go anywhere, we have every moment and the moment just wont be long enough. and were laughing until we fall asleep together. with the bees and the scraggly tree and the apples and forgetting everything as if there is absolutely nothing in the world that we have to do. and is it really there? was it?

And why do i want to just drive for miles and miles and watch the sun start to set and the fields turn from glistening bright green to shades of orange and then red and then you look out and it just barely shines in the blackness. until we reach the next unknown town, with the next unknown possibilities and what ifs. what if i lived in this house and spent my childhood next to this river. right near the railroad tracks and the gas station with one pump and the sign with the words barely etched on still. on the other side of that mountain. what if it were all a little bit different. and not the same.

Would i still crave change like a bad addiction. like i just want to get out. but just cant leave. and this is all i know and i just dont want to know it anymore.

And i cant really remember if its nostalgia or something new that i want to experience. Is it something thats already happened and is locked away in a place of my memory that makes me crave it again. the boundaries between the two play a game of hide and seek. meshing together. making me wonder if ill ever feed the noisy craving and constant reminder in my heart that guises itself as what i can only describe as

Nostalgia.