to unravel.
Their love held no surprise.
And all of a sudden, John felt his universe shrinking.
“So all that’s left,” he said “is that one of us dies.”
“I didn’t catch that, what was it?” she shouted from the other room.
“Nothing,” John said. “Just talking to my nipple.”
“You love her, you do. You wouldn’t feel this way, this mournful, if you didn’t. All dust settles eventually. You let the barnacles of complacent satisfaction cling themselves to your nerves.”
“If knowing means forgetting, then strip me of my knowledge then unlearn me so I can discover it all again.”
“Do you want to?” asked John’s Nipple. “You only need ask.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man on the bus. He said that without his memories, he is someone else. I think what he meant is that a human is like a glass jar. Empty, it has no name and no defined purpose but once it’s filled with useful or useless junk, and once it’s left in a defined space, it assumes a purpose and an identity and if its contents are changed, so too are its identity and its purpose. Each person is a book and when they are born, their pages are as blank as their thoughts. They have no imagination and no title. The person’s memories fill those pages and define their identity and their purpose.”
“So what? I tear out some pages, erase some memories and I change the story? But how?”
“You’ve already started. The leaf; it wasn’t in the locket.”
“You know where it went?”
John’s Nipple smiled.
“It never existed,” said John’s Nipple.
“What do you mean?”
“When we passed the Tyrannosaurus trees, you remembered when you were a boy. That memory was a chapter in your life. It was a memory of sense, one where all of the facts were clear and unchanging, one that had a feeling and a meaning, a definition, and a purpose. In your life, you have told that story a hundred maybe two hundred times, maybe more. You told it to Tracy when you first saw her, underneath that tree. You redefined that memory; an amendment to the original story, a redux of the original piece. The place was the same. The feeling was the same. Your words, as you dared to finally speak to this girl, were as nervous and jittery as your sweaty and shaking hands, that day when you decided to finally climb that tree. And the feeling, as you sat next to her as a young man, listening to her talk about her favorite bands and about the things that bugged her, was identical, as to when you were a young boy, sitting upon the highest branch, listening to the sounds that the world made, only at the height that you were. But today, when you called that memory, you met it with your adult cynicism and you painted it with your typical bored tirade. You reduced the tree and the girl to absolute insignificance. And now, you will never be able to tell the story the same way again. As such, the leaf, or your marker for that page, it doesn’t exist for this is no longer a chapter in your book. It is one of hundreds of thousands of forgotten stories, memories that influence, but do little to inspire. One can relive their story over and over again, but only as a metaphor for what is real and contextual in your life. But if you call a memory and it’s out of context, if the way you feel has now changed, you won’t just disregard the memory; you’ll sever it entirely.”
“So if I relive these chapters in my life, if I rewrite then I can change how I feel about my present?”
“You heard the man on the bus. You are a collection of your memories. Without them, you are someone else. Do you really want to take that risk?”
“If I am someone else then I won’t feel about Tracy as I do now. If I am someone else then she will be someone else to me, and I to her. If I am nothing to her, if I play no villainous or heroic role in her story, if I haven’t polluted her mind with stories, then I can feel about her as I did, before that day at the tree. If I could feel that passion and that want and desire again for just a second, it would sustain me for the rest of my life.”
“But if you are not you, why would she care?”
“It has to be worth it. It has to be better than stewing here in this” John said, stuck for words. “This ordinary life.”
“You could just buy her roses you know. Give her a massage every now and then. Think about when she’s ready to finish for once. I’m just saying you know…” John’s Nipple said, apprehensively. “What you did or thought in the past is not as important as what you are about to do and how you feel, right now.”
“Fuck you,” John said. “You want me to pierce you? I can’t go on like this, with this cold and stagnant love, with knowing how every day is going to be, planning for the future every day and living in a fucking world that is so god damn predictable that all those plans come true. I don’t want to live like that anymore. I don’t want to sit in a cubicle all day spending my creative milk on some faceless corporation, never seeing or tasting the product of my own imagination. I’m sick of it.”
“Listen,” said John’s Nipple. “While we’re on the topic, cold hands,” it said bluntly. “If you’re gonna massage me, you know, warm up those tweaking digits of yours beforehand. It makes a difference.”
“I’m sorry,” John said, feeling genuine remorse. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s fine,” John’s Nipple said. “But if you could….”
“Sure, of course. What about wearing mittens?”
“Ummm,” John’s Nipple said, shaking its head. “Chafing.”
“Oh, ok,” John said. “I’ll keep it in mind. I promise. Now, are you gonna help me?”
“You’re sure you wanna do this?”
“I want to feel that way again. I want to erase her from my story. Are you with me?”
“Well, I am your nipple aren’t I?”