“Promise me you’ll never forget me because if I thought you would I’d never leave.”–Winnie the Pooh
Earlier I was wondering if my beau loved me and also if he knew what beau meant. I’m not sure about either.
I was wondering if I’d ever be happy with my self, the outer shell part at least. I’m sure that I will be, a very long time from now.
I was wondering how to make steamed milk without an espresso machine. I couldn’t figure it out.
These musings left me lonely, pouty and without a cafe au lait.
Who is it that I don’t want to forget me? Any lover I may have? My inner shell part of myself? My memories? My dreams? Sometimes I think so many thoughts that I forget what they’re about. It’s as if the one aspect of my identity that could truly define me doesn’t even mean anything. Just thoughts about thoughts, like the fluff in one’s head Pooh would certainly point out.
I don’t read Winnie the Pooh books anymore. I don’t know if I ever did; maybe I only watched the TV show. I Google search “pooh quotes” whenever I feel sad, scared, happy, nostalgic. He makes you feel how you’re feeling or how you wish you were feeling.
There are a lot of things I’ve never left. In Life (the big one not the magazine) most people just fade away. Not for me. I don’t rid myself of the feelings I have for people once they’ve faded away from me. They’ve forgotten me but I never leave them, because the thought of being forgotten is unbearable. If others don’t forget me, even if I convince myself that others have not forgotten me, than I won’t have to create new memories or a new self. I am a pieced together mish mash of every Connelly that’s walked before.
So what I was really wondering earlier was if my beau will remember me once he’s left me, if my body will remember what it once was, if someone will buy me a damn espresso machine and remember how much I wanted one.