A Documentary On The Things I’ve Never Documented

Harold Garfinkle said our minds work like a filing cabinet.We document things and we index it from A to Z.But I didn’t document the way the ashes fall on my face when I wake up in the morning for the past 4 years.If I did,I would’ve indexed it on Z because I don’t want to remind myself about it.I remembered my friends were smoking rings and one of them asked me to take a picture,and my other friend told him that the rings won’t be documented in the picture,but no one knew why.Instead of rings,they’ll just be,smoke.Smoke that rise up and dissolve into the air where we breathe into our lungs where it brings me back to times when I feel like a cigarette,burning hard and burning fast,waiting to be put out,waiting to be flicked off.

I’ve never documented how I feel like a tomato,that are days when I don’t feel like a blue Picasso painting or a cigarette.I feel like a cherry tomato.Just,a tomato.Like how young lovers feel after kissing too long,like that part of me which was centered under the sun in a farm.I felt like everything nice,and everything nice is a tomato.But I don’t even like tomatoes.I just like feeling like one.I’d index it under A.

I’ve never documented how the collosal of rain poured over the outside windows of my bus,when the patterns looked like scales of a fish.I felt like I was on the inside of the gut of a fish.I felt like I was in a submarine,with wheels.I looked at my friend who was sleeping next to me.He’s the captain,and I’m the sailor.And I have a tattoo of an anchor on the back of my neck.I wanted to take a picture,but all the photo showed was a bus window.And that’s about it.There’s nothing to document and index about.

Today I walked in the rain and I’ve got heavy boots,I looked at the rainwater hitting against the dividers.I’m walking in ocean,I’m walking on the sea.The divider was the shoreline and the rocks.I don’t have heavy boots anymore.I’m nice and dry,on a higher land.But I can’t document that either,so fuck it.


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