love letter, hate mail, same thing...

Tomorrow I'm giving you a poem to read. I haven't picked it yet. I'm not writing a new one. I've decided to choose one from my vast resources of old writings. From one of the binders, folders, books, shelves or the 1 big leather briefcase.

I can't possibly read them all now. There are far too many.

So many of them remind me that I was once someone completely different. A forgotten girl. Mostly forgotten by me. I was so mopey and angry and weepy and overly overly dramatic. Really.

I like some of it, but what really amazes me is that each and every piece contains a memory. Hundreds upon hundreds of pages and each reminds me of exactly what I was doing when I wrote it. Or who. There is a lot of that in there too.

Memories of friends, streets, buses, trains, bars and lovers. Summer storms, too bright mornings, quiet moments and broken hearts. Headaches, sleepless nights, too many cigarettes, too many drinks, Pepsi (before I switched to Cherry coke) and waiting.

I can recall each moment place or thing with clarity. All the way back for years and years. I think the earliest one I stumbled upon was from 1990. That's 17 years of memories.

17 years in binders, folders, books, shelves or the 1 big leather briefcase.