maybe we could cut someplace of our own with these drums and these guitars

i was just going through old emails in search of something, and found something else entirely different and all but forgotten. i am moved to blog*.

this is why you save love letters long after love's departure, why your closets are full of dusty shoeboxes of photographs and keepsakes. and, i guess, in this day and age, why way back in the deepest, darkest corners of your hard drive lurk the clusters of 0's and 1's that you've done your best to disremember.

there's a reason you don't just throw them away like magazines you've read and know you'll never return to. you keep these things because you know someday you might stumble across them again. and you crave that impact. like the best punch in the stomach you've ever had. but it only works if you've really forgotten.

i had written when i was feeling especially morbid (although i remember thinking i was being poetic at the time) that life doesn't amount to much more than what people will remember about you. something about kind words at a funeral, and what an injustice it is that we don't get to attend our own. i don't remember what i wrote exactly (though from what i can remember i'm not impressed with my originality), because i didn't find what i wrote...it's long gone and it doesn't matter anyway. i found the response, from a friend with whom i've since lost touch.

today's gut-punch is brought to you by the forgotten insights of an old friend who always saw right through you and still liked you anyway.

* to use the word 'blog' as a verb is reprehensible and i am deeply sorry.