searching spoons Searching for something that's not there. Searching for something not meant to be. Searching to be loved. Searching to belong. Searching to be one. Searching for the end 030309 ... raze for the origin of a sound that has no traceable source. 130724 ... insouciant I started in the attic, the first place I look when forgetfulness takes hold. It was a miserable place in the heat. The air so warm that each breath felt like a slow suffocation. The attic was filled with boxes. Plastic and cardboard stacked one on top of another. Sweat began to build immediately while rummaging through the first box. It was, of course, completely full and I lifted up every book, turned over and admired every trinket, and felt waves of nostalgia as I remembered things I had missed. But, ultimately, it yielded nothing. I continued the process for the second box, the third box, and after the fourth box I paused. I was perplexed, but there were plenty more stacks to search, plenty more chances. Perspiration was beginning to absorb into my shirt, my face was getting redder, my breath getting shallower, and my patience shortening with each attempt. Accepting the realization that this task would take a bit longer than I expected, I settled into a steady pace. There was enough time in the day, and I knew I could keep searching. I worked tirelessly through each stack, rummaging around every box. It wasn't until I had opened the last box that I felt the first twinge of anxiety. Looking around the attic, now strewn with open boxes and no space to walk, my clothes damp with sweat, I knew I had to keep trying. The sun was a bit lower, the air still heavy, and the smell of insulation, paper, and dust inducing the slightest nausea, I sat down and stared at each box trying to divine which one was the right one. Certainly, a deeper search was warranted. I lifted each box and dumped it onto the floor, kicking memoribilia, old notebooks, and once-loved possessions around. Another hour, heart rate rising, and anxiety taking hold, I didn't care about the mess I was making. I let everything out, telling myself I could clean it later. Eventually the plywood was no longer visible, empty boxes were stacked one on top of another, and my entire history was thrown carelessly about. I stood, overheating, breathing heavy, dripping with sweat. I could no longer stand the heat. The constricting sensation in my chest, my lungs seemingly unable to capture enough oxygen amid the dust, I left the attic. I had to keep searching. I opened every drawer and shook it clean. Opened every cabinet and threw its contents on the ground, careing nothing for their state. I ran from room to room ripping apart the tiny bits of my life. Pulled pictures out of frames, ripped paper out of notebooks, and cleared out every dark corner. My entire living space scoured, panic set in. How could I have forgotten? How could I have been so careless? How am I supposed to keep anything safe? What was the point of having any of these things? I ran through the house, trodding on the physical representation of my life. I could not believe after all this time, and all that I have done, that I had slipped. It could not be true. I would not let it be true. I ran around the house, enraged at my mistake. Picking up bits of my life and tearing them apart, throwing them at the walls. I overturned tables, I broke glass. I punched and kicked my way into exhaustion. My home did not feel like my home. It couldn't be mine if it felt like this. I ran outside in tears and stared up at the sky. The breeze cooling the tears running down the side of my face. I remembered how much I loved the color blue. 220818 ... epitome of incomprehensibility This feels like part of a story. I could sense the tension building up, imagine a hot dusty space. I'm sorry about the pain, whether this is literal or figurative. 220818 ... raze (i was going to ask if it was a dream. either way, it's powerful, and visceral.) 220818 ... insouciant (The pain is real, and when I tried to describe it in words, this is what came together. I get into a panicked hyperfocus when I can’t find something I want. Thankfully, i have the self control to not destroy my living space) 220818 ... tender_square the song struck me on a park bench. it was so familiar, like i knew how it would unfold, though i couldn't be certain whether it was new to me or forgotten. the digital player would not reveal the name or artist. i tried to place the man's voice in the catalogue of what i knew by ear and cadence. it was gentle and melodic. it was kind of folksy but also sounded like indie rock, like it could have been from the nineties. either way, i knew it was slipping away from me as i tried to grasp the lyrics, words scattered now and can't be strung to phrase. i searched through three days of playlists and punched song after song into spotify. the urge to scour an obsession: will i ever hear those words again? i was transported to my past, but it's a scene, its a sensation i can't fully articulate out unless i hear it again. i need to hear it again. 230809 ... tender_square (i heard the song today in the bathroom at work and i scrambled to shazam it with my pants around my ankles. it's chilliwack's "fly at night." so, not nineties but from 1976.) 230818 what's it to you? who go blather from