Ideas run rampant. And listening to good music helps, too. Not sure how long this will be or how often I will update it… but here you go.
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Whispers and looks, joy and heartache; former impulses and used-to-be moments…
Some people forget those kinds of things; they put them away like mementos from another lifetime. Some people just throw those kinds of things away to begin with; seconds and minutes and hours forever lost because all that time never meant much anyway. Some people walk away with a clear head and an untouched heart, grateful for the lesson but with no desire to continuing learning. Some people wake up and find a new existence waiting for them; another chance all polished to a shine as they slept and as they allowed other dreams to pass on by.
Marissa is not like that.
At least, she isn't like that all the time.
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She made it to Ireland.
She made it even further than that, too.
All that money saved, checks upon checks set aside to gather dust, was spent in an attempt to help Marissa find herself instead of constantly running away from herself.
And so there she was – on the soft stone cliffs of England, along the streets of Rome after midnight, with sand sticking to her feet as she stood at the edge of the Aegean Sea. There she was, downing shots with strangers around the alcohol-soaked bars of Germany. There she was, finding lips on her own – men as well as women – as another year begins in another country other than the one she was born into; dancing to music she couldn't hardly understand the words to because those lyrics did not ask the all-important question that is "where is your restroom?" There she was, staring out the window of another apartment-like hotel room as another sun rose up in another unblemished sky as another night slipped away from her grasp.
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There are a couple of years she has let go of, that much is true – aspects of college, terrible days of terrible work, a handful of nights where sorrow made a home in her soul. There are swatches of months that she has shoved back – summers without smiles, autumns without laughter – and, eventually, those memories become as faded as photographs locked away.
But Marissa can still look into a mirror and still see a girl on a bench, sandwiched between a mother and father, with church bells ringing like a heavenly choir in the background. Marissa can still catch her reflection as she moves past a store window and notice that her hand is still slightly open, just waiting for a little blond-haired boy to latch onto her fingers.
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For all her searching, though, all Marissa seemed to find is a brand-new version of escaping; a shiny new way to take flight.
For all her looking, Marissa never could figure out what she was supposed to be seeing; for all her traveling, Marissa still woke up every morning in the same place – staring at the ceiling, sheets cold against her skin, and wondering if all her roaming ways were actually going to lead her anywhere at all…
…wondering just how much longer she can stand to run and still call it progress…
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Marissa can still watch the rain fall and, suddenly, there are phantom touches along her skin; suddenly there is a fire racing through her veins and the recollection of sweet kisses that just about ruined her for anyone else. Each drop that falls, sinking into the ground or darkening the concrete, carries her back to that other city – with the thunder, with the lights off, with the heat of want, with that all-too brief sensation of finding the one person in the whole of the world that would be worth keeping.
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…wondering just how much longer she can press her lips to strangers and still want to taste another person lingering there…
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Some people forget those kinds of things; ignore them with ease or replace them with something or someone else.
Marissa is not like that, though.
At least, she isn't like that all the time.
At least, she isn't like that when it comes to Bianca Montgomery.
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To Be Continued…