Forming a Sight to Behold

There’s a reason I can’t sleep. There’s also a simple explanation for why I can’t finish this book, why I have paused Feist on my play list, or why I don’t hold the will to clean my room. There is a shuffle of papers so artfully stacked across this desk you could swear it’s made from just that. Empty cartilages stuffed into the printer, and a text left unanswered. A boy on my mind I barely speak to, sheet music I haven’t gotten around to reading pinned on a corkboard, and a dead Polaroid camera collecting dust on a shelf. The bike I road at seven in the afternoon is still not put into the garage, and the story of the coyote that stalked the path I rode on is still left untold. How could I possibly feel accomplished? My summer is over, but as melodramatic as it feels, it sounds like a closure to my life. An iron clad gate forced over everything I felt the desire to overcome. I’m scared to be lost with one of the seven sins of memory, because Daniel L. Schacter of Harvard’s Psychology Department warns me of transience. I really could care less where this is going, but I’m scared shitless of what will happen when I get there. What happens after I press play, and ‘Mushaboom’ finishes its last line? I’ll probably play it again, and the next time I hear it I will request a song change. I think I hate this boy, but I’m pretty sure I would love to talk to him right now. I don’t give a fuck if the memory keeps fading from the time my best friends and I drove down a highway, blasting our favorite music with the window open, Schacter. It’s still there to recall. And if I answer that text? I’m not getting a satisfying conversation here anyway.
So why can’t I sleep? How cliche.
I really, really hate this guy.