What those lost days of our youth had, taught us, translated…
There’s that name, inside each and every one of us, that helps us commemorate our own youthful days.
Monica, is a symbol, or maybe, a marking, I suppose. Like inside the campus, parking the car in front of a girl, wanted to give her a lift somewhere, to face toward the gentle breezes of spring, but Monica always, kept going, and walked into the crowd with all those other girls, then, that car never stopped again. Inside the school campus, us boys got together, played our guitars, chatted on about the unknowns of our collective futures, about Monica.
Several years later, this same feeling still firmly, rooted inside my mind, and, it’d colonized the place between nostalgia and my heart, and, the planet still turned, we’d gone our separate ways, and, there was the searching, for the names we once knew, and that question was, always the same, “Whatever happened, to Monica?” And, someone always acts like John Wayne in The Searchers, conquering the Wild West, to save that little girl in Tijuana.
Actually, we’re all, getting older, with those wrinkles, crawling all over our foreheads, and that fatigue in us, black coffee couldn’t even, wash out, the Dorian Grey painted by Oscar Wilde, the promises to NEVER age one bit, that will, NEVER be our story. If the years were stolen, then, all of us boys from the schools back then, still gone out together, to see that film on campus life, so, there’s, always and forever, going to be, a Monica for us, someone sighing at the far end of the internet, that, is an eternal kind of youth.
The searches that accumulated over the years, sending and receiving the messages, almost put a rewards ad online, but, NOBODY has the photo of that Monica now, maybe, that huge WANTED AD should be in a pink frame, nobody ever kept track of how she looked back then, her ponytail, and her dove-like laughter, and, wore her clogs all season long.
At the end, I think, we’re, searching, for ourselves, instead of this symbol that Monica had, become. I feel, that inside the eyes of the girl named Monica, there’s that destined to get forgotten symbol in memories for us all, like a dried up well, wishing for the rain. But, how often can it be, that after dozens of years of not meeting up, people would start thinking of the same person, at the exact, same time, the various people with the same names, missing one another, at the exact same intersections of life. I’d recalled the lines from the writer, Yao-Der Lin, a stopped clock would, be right on time twice in a day. That year, we all go to the same school, received the same awards, he, stood next to me, smiling, in a photograph, not yet disappeared. Turns out, in my mind, there hidden, some sort of memories, that were, destined, to be forgot too.
But, dearest Monica, what, is she doing now? She’s a pocket watch that’s always on the dot, the skips of the time, always kept a red lip gloss inside her purse. Jung, the psychologist had, propped the “proximity theory” for her sakes, meaning, that at a set time in the world, someone is, doing the EXACT same things that we’re doing at the moment, checking, adjusting the minute-hand on the clock, falling asleep at the same time. Jung told, that those who are doing the exact same things at the exact time, the electric pulses inside their hearts are running at the speed of light, toward that connection that they’d shared. Perhaps, we’d once, sat in that same movie theater, ranted on at dusk outside, Tom Hanks ran across the entire city of Florence, trying, to solve that deadly puzzle, but the Monica inside of him didn’t tell him, that the YEARS, are what that maze was, made up of.
not my photo…
“What happened to Monica?”, all of us, guy got on with our lives, carefully, looked over the fire inside our separate hands, and every now and then, as “Monica” surfaced into our minds, the question became, “If you see her again, what, will you say to her?”, and this question, was easily answered, by my public performances for my graduation, “The Autumn Moon Tea Room”, with the yellow moon hung high up in the skies, turned into a yellow, tear-filled satchel, Monica was in her kimono, ushering in the guests, purple, her favorite iris. I’d called out to her, she’d, turned her head around.
What, did we say to each other?
So, this, is how much you’d, forgotten about your own youth, and, this Monica became that longing, for those lost days of your youth, and, as you get older, this “Monica” that lives inside of you, will call out to you louder, and louder, and louder, reminding you, that you had, not yet, lived out your own dreams when you were younger, but, life and reality get in the ways of dreams, and so, in the very end, you can, only, say goodbye to that Monica inside of your own hearts, and, settle down, unwillingly.