At The End of Wadsworth

Poetic musings on a past friendship.

When I was young and dumb, my best friend and I accidentally found the end of Wadsworth Boulevard in Colorado. We meant to go North and ended up South, because what other direction would we go with me at the wheel?

I had (and still have) a reputation for my terrible sense of direction. In high school, the joke was that I always seemed to end up at the airport. It only happened twice, but DIA was so far away, and in the middle of nowhere; in other words, it was ridiculous for me to find myself there. Twice.

And yet, apt for the time. I was literally and metaphorically lost in my senior year of high school. Eventually, the airport brought me to college out of state. It was an omen, how poetic.

Our Wadsworth adventure took hours, and we didn't even notice. I don't even remember where we were coming from, just that I was trying to take us home. We were unaware of our surroundings until we pulled up to a security gate and encountered a confused officer. We'd somehow ended up in a high-security clearance aerospace and missile facility.

But when you're in love and running away from your problems with a girl who will only string you along, you're bound to end up somewhere explosive.

When I see Cutthroat Kitchen, I think of her.

As a ghost, she floats through my memories, an apparition at best. I killed the memory of her, slashing her into pieces until there was nothing left but the perceived evil. The lies, without their context. Without her emotions, her motives, her hopes, her dreams--without her.

My hurt ran deep, but it was selfish. It consumed every last shred of her, leaving me with nothing but the skins.

Sometimes I wonder if I loved her or just her body. And yet, that can't possibly be true; that's not who I am or how I experience attraction, but I've villainized her to the point that I don't remember who she truly was, only her shell. I thought she was always an emotionless, toxic person, but then, my Facebook memories (of all things) showed me a different version of her. It showed me the version of her writing loving messages on my wall (I'm revealing my age here). But then again, I don't even remember who I was back then.

When I pass Village Inns, I think of her.

Studies show that every time we think about a memory, it changes. It forms to the context of the time it is being remembered. Every time a memory comes to mind, it is changed forever. Every. Single. Time.

People who wrong me become villainous, evil, spiteful individuals without a heart. But I drew them close for a reason. I loved them for a reason. They had to have redeeming qualities… right?

This girl, this woman, this dreamer, this lover, this cheater, this manipulator, is symbolic of how vastly different people become in memory. Whether I'm villainizing or idolizing, none of it is real.

Only two facts remain:

She was a liar, but so am I.