personal blog: simon

Jacob’s hand danced in the air like a butterfly as the other he held near his chest, painting with his fingers, spelling out the word ‘L O V E’.

those are the things that I recall. how sad, and I have been recalling them more than ever. maybe I miss him, and I look around the room. the loud music disperses like a wave, crushing my skull, as the bodies of twenty something sway to the nostalgic seventies. the bass turning them to bopping-heads and I’m a tiny isolated spot among the sea staring through the filter of infatuation like a buffoon at the tiny image on my phone.

‘lift you head!’ someone shouted, but Jacob refused to do so and dropped his eyes to the ground, evading the camera, evading me.

sorry. another recollection but the emitted image of Jacob on my phone no different today. his eyes darting to the side, half of his face on display. always the same. but I must return to reality, to the present, to Kevin. “may we go?” I ask impatiently.


well. that was easy. not an argument for once.

I feel too old for loud music and infestation of youngsters moving their bodies to the latest remix. Kevin’s masterplan for a Friday date. a college party. college years I didn’t care for the first time around, and more so don’t want to relive now. I guess this is what I get for dating a twenty-one-year-old. a punishment. my realization that we are so wrong for each other, which explains my latest preoccupation with immersing into my past, scanning through images on social media, searching for the familiar faces. staple in my daily routine, an escape from reality, and it’s not like my reality in any definite scope is harsh, but my mind seems to gnaw at the intangible, something I can no longer have.

“yeah.” Kevin agrees again and takes my hand and I take a final look as the music swallows the crowd.

the outside air, the quiet, and I exhale, walking through a mist of smoke. a young woman blows me a kiss and smiles, a cigarette between her fingers. what a horrendous habit. my father used to smoke. ‘my cigarettes!’ he used to shout. all his jackets, all stunk of cigarettes; but he never smoked at home.

and then there are these snippets that I remember. my family. my brothers. my sister. my mother. my father. a moment from my childhood.

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© simon whittle — second act