There is a forest of memories inside my head and they are pungently rotting. If you are too busy to decipher the remains of voices echoing like a gang of pigeons, then you need to turn off your Internet.
Television screens are washing out conversational interludes.
Statuses of human interactions are pressed into computers to validate existence.
If you tell no one of your day, it still happened.
If you forget to post a photo of your face or bulging body, you will not cease to exist.
In the olden days, electrical outlets occupied less space and if we needed to raise money for our cause or wanted to invite others to our party or wanted to wish another goodnight……….we tiptoed over to that person’s residence and asked or wished.
There was a time when we would walk miles just to kiss a lover goodnight.
And that kiss made the miles of toe crunch against concrete worth every huff.
Pause lips.
Taste the day.
Is it sour?
Does it burn?
Is there a poem hidden in the gathering of spit leftover from dream sequence of nighttime?
Let go of typing for awhile.
Send a letter.
Collect enough stamps to send several letters.
Turn.Off.Television. (realize that you are far more interesting than “reality” scripted on screen)
Tell me about your day.
Me.
Tell me about your day. If you let me see your face, I can interpret your status.
I forgot what you look like.
And you have no idea that I no longer take sweetener in my coffee (I never posted that change).
And do you know that I cut out five of my dreadlocks? (I forgot to post that too)
If you want to learn me, gather up your finest sneakers and walk your way here. I’ll meet you halfway.
Aimee Herman 