You remember the nights that haunted you: driving alone in a city that never knew you, with the rain falling down and the roads wet with the future you continually slipped on. You drove past street signs and under trees that allowed their leaves to fall onto your windshield, like those leaves were always waiting to fall for you, which made you feel sad, because a falling leaf was the highlight of your night, your week, your life.
And then the change came you were searching for: wandering around Europe with girls who enjoyed your smile and British friends who loved your accent. You remembered that you were important to actual people, fuck the leaves and the wind because they were inanimate objects unworthy of your affection.
Your mind altered then. You weaned yourself off the morphine drip that lost love injected into your veins. Your drives became wild; laughter more spectacular than the sad songs that watered your eyes; bed sheets warmed with human touch; mornings coiled in rising and falling breath that wasn’t singed in regret. You wondered how love had ever scarred you. And the band-aids you wore fell to the ground, unbloodied.
You started writing of life: that peculiar thing that consists of little moments, and big moments, of pillow talk under the sheets, of lung-stretching shouts that rock your bed frame and leave you wilted and spent. New names attached themselves to different girls and you learned to grammatically shift your life so that it stopped ending at periods.
And wow, what a story you started to compose, chaptering the highlights and deleting the lowlights, building characters out of experience and protagonists out of genuine emotion. Catch phrases clung to you, mottos to live by, convoluted dreams untied the knot and became simplistic desires free of cumbersome layers. The leaves fell for you in different ways – with color, vividly fantastic – and your life’s windshield wipers swept away the dirty ones unfit for the outlook of your newly scripted lifestyle.