365 Attempts (At Life)

What starts the love rush, exactly? And let’s forget sexual chemistry for a second or two. What makes you realize you are in over your head because your heart is bursting? Is it a look? Something they say? What triggers it? That “oh shit, I think I love this person” rush that infects your insides. And there is no turning back once the rush hits. It’s a scary, truthful, sobering flood. You now have something and  someone  to lose. You now have a very good chance of getting hurt. If they love you back? High-Fives and Hallelujahs! But if you know they don’t? Ugh. Then terror is amplified tenfold and you’re swimming in the deep end. In the dark. All alone. Reciprocation is key. Reciprocation is the life jacket. That’s why, friends, it’s important to understand what started the rush for you. The look? The words? What has left you with nothing but saturated, condensed feelings that overwhelm you at will? You have to figure it out. And...

There in the attic we accumulate particular keepsakes. Out of our peripheral vision but always overhead. Some days, rainy ones, we want to climb up there and peruse through them. For old times’ sake. To shake our heads and get overwhelmed with emotion. That distinctive blend of heartache mixed with gladness that comes from surveying the past. Attics can hold trunks and trunks of treasure troves. Some heavy with souvenirs. Some light and simply waiting to be filled. But the trunks themselves can be like solid, solitary crypts. Their dusty lids silently reminding us that perhaps our greatest treasures do not require a final resting place. Perhaps our greatest treasures do not need to be found again and again. Like every beautiful thing that sits with time, they will age and fade away. Try as we might, we cannot hold a moment in our hands forever. Or fold it neatly over blue tissues and place it in an airtight box for preserva...

"What’s the worst that can happen?" Said the girl balancing on one foot at the edge of the bridge.

Color my day with experience. The kind that’s worth remembering. The kind that will paint my every thought tomorrow. But be kind. With your palette. Use less blue.

The Sunday shift can be a crapshoot. You never quite know what to expect. Who might turn the corner, and surprise you by walking right in. Who will leave you tongue tied. And who will turn your day around with a gimlet and easy conversation. It’s the ‘old world’ way of finding your way. Around a new town. Around new faces that blend in with the familiar. A penny for your troubles and a dime for the bartender. That’s the way it goes, if you so choose. And at the end of the night, when you tally it all up and the cash register cranks open to empty wooden slots, you don’t mind. Because the Sunday shift is the best shift. Even if it don’t pay much. *The Sparrow 5322 Boulevard Saint-Laurent. MTL , QC

Draw me a map to get out of this mess. And I promise I’ll get lost again.