4-3-16
"I've thought about coming back" he says, "I guess it's just nostalgia.. like i don't know, maybe I think it'll fill this hole in my life, because something's always missing- whether it's a girlfriend, a relative, whatever- but whenever I'm here, I'm over it. All of the people here are lowlifes, who steal, cheat, and lie and that's what they live for" - my brother

I don't think you could be more accurate if you tried.
This town is a dystopia, a black hole,
and if you don't get the hell out when you can,
You risk getting stuck.
It's absolutely toxic here,
But when you see these things on the daily, it almost seems normal.
It's unique,
and as much as you say you're going to be back,
Everyone moves on,
Everyone leaves this place,
For bigger and better,
Because once you can breathe air that doesn't let you overdose on nicotine and addiction and depression and everything that you shouldn't ever have to experience regularly,
You realize how good clean air tastes.

I guess it makes sense why I can relate to this place,
But maybe I'm just a product of what it's made me.

I noticed that mom watched and listened when you talked
Because every word you say feels so relevant,
and that's so foreign to witness.
I wonder if maybe someday I'll sit in that recliner,
Run my fingers through my hair,
and say something, anything,
And know that I've got the attention of anyone who's got ears to listen,
Including the mother who never asked for an artist to raise.
But i look at you and how similar we are,
and you never do get out of my head,
I swear, Michael,
You're an overflow of inspiration for me.
You were in a much different place a few years back,
We're in different positions,
I know that,
And i know i don't want to live like you are,
But I wouldn't necessarily hate it, either.

Distance reveals truth.
You get the unexpected phone calls and suddenly you realize you've grown the hell up and you were supposed to stay in that person's life for all of eternity,
And you get the talks over an oak table,
The spilling confession that escalates,
The realization that you don't know how to respond,
That you're supposed to have shared your story with them, too,
but so much has changed since high school,
Where do you begin?
Yet you also realize that you don't care,
That there's nothing more you can do because a weekend doesn't last forever and if laying truths on the ground was a desperate attempt to mend the ache of time and distance,
It didn't fucking work,
Nothing does.
The future is a suture for that nostalgic ache that feels a lot like a pill too hard to swallow,
Because you know you'll miss these days when they're over and schedules, routines, number of miles away, timezone, mindset, career, has all been rewired.

I have a feeling I'll miss the memories of here the way you do,
But it helps hearing your words (I thank my memory for remembering what you said word for word omg),
Because I'll be out of here soon,
Too soon,
And i think it fills a bit of my void,
Knowing that I'll miss this but I won't,
That leaving is inevitable and there's nothing worth staying for here.
Reluctant goodbyes won't mean anything with time,
As we see, that's how it goes.
The ache will seduce anyone into believing that here and now isn't anything compared to those hazy, glamorized, memories,
But don't listen, don't buy into it,
Future me, nostalgia is hard to down, this you know,
Don't miss this too much.
- (m.m)