It's like pictures in non-sequential order blurring together in a slideshow. Some of them make sense: friends moving slowly in rhythmic motion, a black straw leading to a glass filled with ice, flashing lights, the white urinal and washing my hands, stumbling down stairs on the way to the mini-van. I wish I could put them all together, figure out exactly what happened on my own, realize how spectacular the night was (even though I know it was provocatively entertaining).
But even more bizarre than the still frames skimming through my mind is the clarity of the touches, the textures, the fell of the night. I remember the way he felt... I remember his touch on my back, his pull on my hand, the way he moved against me on the dance floor. But I don't remember much of our words, much of his face, much of the aftermath of such intoxicating interactions. I wish I did, not for fear of what happened but because I want to completely integrate the experience into memory. I want to asses the mood of our glances, to predict the movements of our subsequent thoughts, the possibilities that might have arisen in such a short time.
Then there's the complete extreme: I don't want anything to come of it. It wouldn't feel right to start with such a hazy night, to build from such a tragic reverie, broken and dark, and make some fascinating mural of physicality. Thus, I don't care to analyze our gravity. Just knowing its beauty is enough. Just remembering the feel is enough. Just knowing that the possibility of such exchanges is enough.
Knowing, understanding, comprehending these thoughts makes me feel complete. It makes the lost bearable, acceptable, enjoyable. Even in the haze of a hang-over, I'm smiling and enjoying the feel of this consequence, eagerly anticipating the next.
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