notes in a spiral

Underneath it all, there is this spiral pad I once took notes in. It isfilled with plans and poems. Some done. Some not done.

I can't seem to make sense of all the jotted words (some are crossed out), but inside the notebook is a sketch that I drew. I remember doing it, now. It was when trying to picture this girl became too much for my mind to handle, that I put her on a page in a picture I made with a pen. It's not all that good. I'm no artist. But I have it there, in my spiral notebook.

At one point, I put a photograph I had of her next to it, just to see how they'd look beside one another. It's clear: the artist's representation is an abstract.

It's not my fault, though, that I thought of her, often. Things I saw reminded me. And, as soon as I was with someone else, she'd drop me a line (she thought of me, too). And, then she'd come back, her face in my head, replacing what was new.

But now I can't even imagine what she looks like. It's been some time since I've seen her last, and I'm sure she's changed. Her face in the mind of another. Her person with other people.

Some memories are mysterious. How they form pictures in my mind. It's like there's a box inside a box that's been opened. The contents come clean, and, when cradled and inspected, dreams occur. I'm taken to a place that isn't here. A time that isn't now. And am put in a room with people that exist in the past.

My doomed self unsure all overa gain of my future.