My eyes struggle to focus on what use to be so clear in front of me. They can’t see what the signs say. They can’t make anything out. My visions worsens with each passing day. What happened?

It has begun; what I’ve dreaded for so long. The longing pain of unrequited attraction, the longing pain of infatuation, obsession. The longing pain. It has begun.

I’m not going to glorify this infatuation like I’ve always done before. There’s no glorification for any infatuation. There shouldn’t be. It’s just too painful to glorify and chrerish. This is all because of my sickness, my masochism.

The signs ahead of me were so clear. They were crystal, spelling out everything there was to know about the things to come, but now, they are just a blurry mess of words that I can barely make out. She always secretly liked his brother Edward. That’s what the sign says, but now, I can hardly make out the words.

The signs ahead of me are so open to interpretation now, I just don’t know how to approach them. I may have a clue as to what it is. Instead of me being with the single mother, I was only to think that I am ready to be with her and help parent her child. That was it. That was all there was to that sign. I’ve finally figured it out. I was too hopeful to believe that it was anything but. Where did this optimist come from? Where?

Now I sit here dreading the feelings I have for this beauty. Now I sit here wishing I was never this kind of person who falls for the unattainable. Why am I like this?

It must be the challenge of it all. It must be. I am a man of logic and practicality. It makes better sense for me to fall for someone who is attainable and likes me instead of falling for the one who I can not have at the moment. What is wrong with me? What is wrong with me?

It got me down today. It got me really down today. It was the first day since I’ve met her. It brought me down. This is the moodiest I’ve been in a while. It was the weather I tell her. It was only partly true. She was the rest.

Now I sit here, loathing in self pity for the feelings I don’t want to feel. How familiar this thing is. How familiar this life is.

I could do something about it, but I don’t know if I really can.

I’ll just let whatever happen happen. I’ll just not think too much about it, take a step back and reevaluate things. I’ll just let things be and just not partake in the games that we usually play. I need to keep my distance. That is all I need to do. Keep my distance. Keep my distance.

There is just something about writing in the day that I just can’t do. I’m sitting here in The Java Man here at Hermosa Beach, CA waiting for the writing group to arrive, and yet, I am at a lost for words on what to write. Sure I’m writing right now, but it just doesn’t have that flow that I always have when I am there on the bridge at night. It just doesn’t feel the same.

Maybe it is just too bright out, or maybe there is just that there are too many people around. They are distracting me. The traffic, the two blondes over to the right or the two guys behind me. There are just so many factors and distractions that I just can’t focus on anything pertinent.

The Java Man seems to be a nice chill place to just come and write. If only there were better places in LA like this, maybe I would be there more often. Maybe not. I wonder how late do they open.

I’m just at a lost for words. My fingers are dancing with the same ferocity as they are use to during the guise of night. Nothing flows, nothing streams. Just bits and pieces of staccato thoughts here and there to get me through.

There is nothing to write about at the moment, nothing at all.

Well, tomorrow will be my birthday. Tomorrow I’ll be 26 and either tomorrow or the day after, I may have my yearly birthday writing. I wrote one last year, dammit, I’m gonna write another one this year. I don’t have any idea of what I’m going to write yet, but I’m sure it will be something. It sure will be something.

I don’t even remember the last time I had a heart to heart with this journal anymore. It just seems that more and more, my postings here have become less and less about me and more and more about the stream of conscious writing that I’ve grown so accustomed too. No, that’s a lie. There are still bits and pieces here that is me. Everything here is me. Everything.

I wait silently like a lone reed, swaying in the cool breeze, just waiting, waiting for the time to come when we can get together and do our business. Just waiting for the time when we would all arrive and just sit down and write, share our valued works and to share our selves with the group. I’m just waiting for the time.

In the mean time, I will just type, type my little diddy of whatever comes to mind. This is the most “stream of conscious” writing I’ve ever done. This is the one that has no purpose, no forethought. I’ve never done this before. Never.

I’m sure my other ramblings here have some forethought in it. It has some focus as to where I’m gonna go with it. The girl, time, life. This one is just pitting me against the elements of time, boredom, and just me trying to keep myself occupied until they are here.

I sit here, just typing away, typing away to the rhythmic staccatos of the keyboard. I’m looking at each pedestrian that pass by hoping that it is a member of the group. Just looking to see if it is a member of the group. Many pass, but none are them. None.

There is a haunting woman that hangs next to me. She seems naked but a tray of food that sits in front of her. Maybe it is food. It’s a yellow mass of shapes and swirls that sit in a red box. She gazes out at us all, ignoring the people in the background. She just gazes, ignoring all. She looks at us as we are the show and she is the audience. She voyeuristically sits there lifeless to us, thinking what strange people we are, just sitting here drinking coffee, writing, talking. We are wonders to her.

And I sit here, just thinking about her. Her long strands of sandy blonde. The crimson nature of her surroundings. What is it all about? What is it all about? The blue wall behind her, are they windows or are they hanging life that are doing what she’s doing, that is looking? What is it all about. Who are we to judge, who are we to know? We are not her creators. We are no one in particular. We are just who we are, sitting here, enjoying the atmosphere.

The people just lounge, talking enjoying themselves. Maybe they are looking at us too, observing her as she observes us, and they look at us to see what is so interesting that grasps her attention so much. What is it about us that is so fascinating? What is it?

They sit there all nameless and faceless. They seem to be having a great time, they same to be enjoying themselves. That is who they are, just nameless people with forgettable faces. They are like the pedestrians that walk by minute after minutes, and we try to find a face and a name to put to their swaying walk and bodies. But it never happens. We all are just passing strangers. Just passing strangers, walking by and ignoring everyone, as we should.

Such a happy demeanor she has as she runs her long fingers through her blonde strings. There she is, another nameless soul to me. She talks to the phone, leaving a message for someone. Who? Her boyfriend, friend, family, who? Who knows? It’s none of my business. There she goes……

Isn’t it funny how sometimes some songs get stuck in your head and you remember it so clearly, that everytime you hear that song, it brings back certain memories about that song? Like, for instance, a certain moment that sticks out in your mind about that song, what you were doing, who you were with, so on and so forth.

I’ve been thinking about this lately, especially at work. There’s one particular song that would come on and it would just bring back a small memory that I have associated with that song. It wasn’t a memory of something big and momentous in my life, no, it was just a mundane memory. And for some reason, I associate the song to that.

The song is Natalie Imbruglia’s Wrong Impressions. This song came out something in 2001 or maybe even 2002. The memory that this song conjures up is a simple one. I’m in my car, my old car, the 1991 Honda Prelude. I’m just driving down Santa Monica Blvd, going to the Century City mall, most likely going there to catch a movie. The windows are down, the sun roof open, and I’m just driving. Of course the song has to be playing, if not, then why would this memory be associated with this song? Who knows.

The memory. Again, it’s a simple one. I’m just driving. Thinking back on it one day at work, it just seems that it was a happy memory for me. I don’t understand why it was such a happy memory for me, because around that time, I don’t think it was a happy time in my life. Well, maybe it was, and I just didn’t realize it. All I know that the feelings that I associate with this particular memory is a happy one.

I could see myself so clearly, just smiling my little smile, listening to the song, driving down Santa Monica Blvd with the wind blowing through my shaved hair. And it was a happy image, a happy memory. Maybe it was just me being on my own, not a care in the world, living the independent life that I’ve always wanted to live. I got a job that supports me and I’m on my own. Cut off from family as much as I could, not depending on them to survive. I’m doing it. I’ve become a separate entity from my parents, my brother, my family. I’m on my own, I’m myself.

Another similar memory is of Michelle Branch’s Washing Machine and Breathe. And these too are of memories of me driving, wind in my hair, not a care in the world. I’m just driving in my little Honda coupe, going to Fresno. I’m independent and I’m free. Driving, going where ever I please, doing whatever it is I want to do. Freedom.

Music has always been a big part of my life. It is everywhere and a part of everything that I do. I’m listening to music now as I type my little ditty here. I sing to myself classic tunes of yesteryear and also the mainstream popularity of today and also other tunes and other genres that are so common today. I sing, I hear, I listen. Tell you a little secret….Sometimes I dance too. Me dancing, a sight to see my friends, it’s a sight to see.

Music is just something I listen to, something to help me keep time, something to help me pass time, something to help me think. With each song, I’m sure, comes a different memory.

Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You from The Body Guard Soundtrack is a song that I will never forget. It is the song Amber and I danced to at our senior prom. I will always remember that night, I will always remember that dance, and I will always remember her.

It’s one of those memories that you never forget. It’s one of those things that you just look back on to see where have you been and to see where you are now. Amber, the love of my life, well, not actually, but she was my high school obsession. She was my high school crush, and most of all she was my friend. It was senior prom. I honestly don’t remember exactly why I went. Maybe it was during a ignorant time during the end of my high school career, thinking that I will be a little bit more social, so I went. I bought two tickets, but only needed one. I asked her out, but of course, she went stag. I went stag.

The night was on a boat. We cruised around the sound for a little bit. That was our prom. Now, me being the antisocial socially defunct guy at the prom, it wasn’t a really enjoyable affair. I was alone, not having a good time, and I was stuck on a boat. I had no where to go. I would go up and down, up and down, keeping myself occupied to pass the time faster. But unfortunately, it didn’t pass by fast. It was slow and torturous. Slow and torturous.

I don’t remember exactly what time it was, but I remember coming from the top level of the boat and going down to the next level to go to the bathroom. I walked through the door and there she was. Amber, in this lovely strapless black and white largely checkered dress (on a side note, which made her ass look big). Her hair, down and curly, a little pulled back. She was coming up the stairs. The bottom two floors were the dancing floors, but there she was.

I smiled the best smile that I could manage, given my episode of depression. She came up to me, grabbed my hand, turned around and just walked me down. She hasn’t said a word, not a word. She just dragged me down. I didn’t ask where we were going, I didn’t ask what she was doing, cause I knew. She pulled me to the middle of the dance floor, and there we danced. I Will Always Love You. She took off her heels to get more comfortable and we just danced. Slowly swaying to the rhythm of Whitney’s voice. I Will Always Love you.

I don’t know what she was trying to say or do, but all I know was that we danced. We just danced. Why she picked that song, why she went through all the effort to come find me, I don’t know. All I know was that we danced.

After the dance, I stayed with her for a couple of minutes, just trying to be social, but my usual self won out. I didn’t know what to say, what to do, and things just ended there. I bumped into other friends, talked for a bit, and then went up to the top floor where I was. Just looking out at the setting sun, watching the glimmer of light reflecting off of the sound. The light went out as the sun faded, and that was that.

Funny how you will always remember these memories.

The most recent memory is of Pink’s Just Like a Pill. It’s a good song, mainstream pop like any other, a song that I like a lot. It’s catchy. It was a few weeks ago actually, at Jill’s house warming party. I’m not exactly sure what I was doing at the time when it was on, maybe I was sitting inside on the stairs or maybe I was standing near the kitchen in conversation with some one. The girls, Drew included, were putting on songs to dance to. Just Like a Pill was the one that they put on. All I remember are the girls just jumping up and down, dancing, and singing at the top of their lungs to the chorus. Just dancing, laughing, singing, and having a good time.

The particular image that comes to mind is of Drew dancing, jumping up and down, singing at the top of her lungs. She looked so cute, just dancing there, laughing, smiling. But it will always be a memory and nothing more. Things will always be a memory. Just a memory.

How long do memories last. Will they fade in time as my brain cells gets fewer and fewer? Will there be more memories of this type? It’s a sad and longing memory this last one is. Just me, passive, sitting there, watching like an obsessed stalker. My how much I’ve changed huh?

But no, in all honesty, that’s life. Things just get stuck in your head for no rhyme and/or reason. They just get stuck. It is a imprint of a lost moment that you can never get back again.

People are like music too, they leave imprints, images, visions, memories, even dreams in your mind that you can’t get out of your head. You come up with a picture of the person, then another picture, another image and so on and so forth. Then you start to put a soundtrack to these images, a song that fit your sentiments, your moods, your emotions. Then you start to obsess and start to do this more and more often, and pretty soon these images become your life.

All of these things, these images, these people are of your past, yet, you remember them so clearly, you remember almost every detail. They haunt you like the living things you come across in your daily life. But you can’t do anything about them.

They are of the past and should stay in the past.

Why is it so hard to forget the things you want to forget? Why is it so hard to just leave these imprints behind in the past where they belong? Why?

I’ve been reading a book lately. It is a book about Wong Kar-Wai and his films. It is about analyzing his films, his themes and motifs. Time, memory, isolation, alienation. These are some of the main themes in almost all of his movies. Time and memory. He is fixated by time and memory. In particular in Ashes of Time. Near the end, there is a line that just rings true. It is somewhere along these veins. The more you try to forget something, the more you remember it. The more you try to remember something, the further away it becomes. It is so true.

I’m a guy who lives in the past, for I am a guy with a elephant’s memory. I’m a guy who can pull memories out of my mind like it is right in front of me. I spend much of my time focusing on these memories, well more so a long time ago, but not recently. But, the memories are still readily available. With each day, new memories are made to be filed away.