It is currently 18 minutes into the 22nd day of April 2020. Bedtime has felt irrelevant lately; I eventually glance at the time after hours of Netflix, reading, writing, or messing around on Photoshop and realize it's 2 a.m. and I should probably be tired.
Days right now are spent inside. Sometimes I don't even set foot outside my house. When I do go outside, it's for a bike ride or to sit in the driveway and soak up the 60º April sun. Days are hazy, almost dream-like. I feel like I'm living in limbo with no agenda but putting together puzzles, snacking, or finding a new place to sit when I've spent too much time with any one family member. And the weirdest part is that I'm used to it. I've accepted the aimlessness.
It's during the hours late at night that I find myself the least bored. And the most emotional. Thoughts of change saturate my mind as I can't help but reflect on different times. When I think back to these memories it's like I'm standing outside my body—a stranger. I feel like I'm watching someone else's home videos; different people in a different world.
This change in perspective makes me wistful, like somehow these memories are no longer my own. It doesn't feel real that I was once that person doing those things. Not when life is nothing like that anymore. But all of this perspectival reminiscing has made me do more than long for things out of reach.
In high school I took a creative writing class. I was so used to creative writing being on my own terms, but now I had someone directing my expression—forcing me to apply my ideas in different ways. I think this was one of the best things for me. We spent a lot of time discussing what creative writing means and what creation itself means. My teacher showed us myriad works of many authors and then had us do exercises to mimic their pieces. To do this successfully, I had to look through the eyes of the author—wear their glasses so to speak. Putting on someone else's glasses (or wearing someone else's shoes) doesn't mean your own thoughts and opinions go away, it's just supposed to encourage empathy and acknowledgement. So, as I look back at my own memories with a feeling of removal, I am reminded of an exercise from this creative writing class.
Below is a short piece I titled "Exit 7A." For this assignment, we were told to pretend to be someone else and write a short stream-of-consciousness dialogue for this person. As I look back over this piece, I see that I didn't remove myself enough when I wrote it. Maybe because I didn't realize it, or because it was easier to write about myself when I pretended to be someone else. My exit 7A looks different now than it did in high school, but at my core, I'm still that person from the memories I keep reminiscing on.
Exit 7A
The traffic coming home is awful until I get past exit 7A and then, it clears up, less congested. Fewer tired people in black or red or silver or blue cars, cutting across lanes so that I have to slam on the brakes and curse to myself.
It’s 5:42 p.m. and I’m hungry because someone ate my leftovers that were in the work fridge. It was probably Tom Anderson that inconsiderate son-of-a–but I stop myself. Mom never liked it when I cursed, which is something I haven’t thought of in years. And Dad, telling me to “choose my battles” when I was 17 and King of the World.
Suddenly, soggy cereal doesn’t seem so bad. I wonder if Dad forgot his cereal while he was reading the paper before work, or if the 6-year-old girl next door ate soggy cereal for breakfast and that’s why she was crying as her mother dragged her out the front door this morning.
Exit 7A.
How are Mom and Dad doing? Back in Maine. How am I doing? Way out here. And then, Maine doesn’t seem so bad either. Maybe because the cars are clearing out now or maybe I never should have left.
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