Are memories just a bunch of polaroid pictures?

I’m not myself. I’m not Michelle Kathleen O’Kane. I’m just a foggy picture of whatever I once was. 

Now I’m an instant photograph. I’m searching for light to provoke my emulsion. I’m collecting layers—negative and positive layers, which helps to me diffuse into the infinitely developing image.

Time travel is complex, and fortunately I visit a person, place, or thing, that memory is ever the same twice. 

 This place. The soft grey shawl, my WIP on my bed. The book on my nightstand. French. 

Me Before and Me After incessantly converse about me. Every memory—every snippet of what used to be my life. 

My life used to encompass the worlds of seeing new places on other continents. And writing romance novels while I still believed in romance and excitement and love. Memories of sharing many meals with people I loved. 

I wake up while driving in various cars, and I’m always the driver. Frequently I am 280, approaching the 101/92 exchange. Aware. While I’m driving I surround myself with the color-changing hills. I’m humming along with Elvis Costello.  I’m watching the detectives. (The Angels Wanna Wear) my red shoes. 

I’m now pointed west, driving to Half Moon Bay. I’m in various makes of cars, all of which I owned. Today I’m driving a clutch—my blue Ford Ranger. This is the car I purchased with money I received after my mother died. I am now 18, and she’d died just a few months ago, while I was 17. 

I drive past memories. The Half Moon Bay Nursery, on the south side of 92.  on the south side of the road and now I’m just starting to drive through the outskirts of the town. My town. My ocean and sea salt and blue blue blue sky and sea, white wavy clouds tying the sun and sea together. 

I’ve finally come to realized and understand how crazy I am. 

I haven’t watched a movie with another person in over 5 years. I haven’t laughed with someone in as many years. A few times something I’m watching or hearing has caused the sound—the sharp chirp of a laugh. The noise scares me. Hearing my own laugh is such an unfamiliar sound that it shocks me. Then, of course, I’m sad. 

I’m rolling myself down a hill. I’m rolling across the green, twinkling grass and behind me is the grass, a 5’4” lane that I’m creating as I roll away.

That’s me. Again. 

I’m jealous of so many things I see on tv. Landscapes and cities and people at tables with white espresso cups. 

Lifes.