Nobody becomes mediocre on purpose – it just kind of happens, gradually over time, through a series of compromises and just good enoughs until, eventually, they’re no longer actively attempting to be even remotely good at something but rather just not bad. And then, even at that point, being not bad isn’t exactly being good, either.
Petrichor lingers in the air long after the rain has ceased, the clouds have parted, and the thunderous applause has calmed. The opening line of Spring being accompanied by the sweet smell of Honeysuckle. The unique aroma that accompanies old books in the forgotten wing of the Public Library as you navigate your way through the card catalog to find that one book you’ll need to finish your report for third period English.
It’s hard to say which memories will stay with you and which ones will fade. Something happens, and at the time, it seems so insignificant, yet years upon years later, you find yourself sitting alone writing about memories, and just like magic, there that insignificant event from your past is, dancing around on the front of your lobe like so many Warner Brother’s frogs, outfitted with walking canes and top hats.
Hiding beneath everything that makes me me is a new version of that person; and he has learned a trick that I could never manage to, in all of my years of attempting: the trick of letting go.
Eighteen. No – maybe Nineteen. Intoxicated, naked, and horny. Stumbling in the cold night air as my parts flapped like bird wings attached to soft meat. Laughter filled the air, and our bellies. High on both drink and pills. I never want this night to end.