So remind me…
Remind me of the you behind the stories. Behind the lack. Behind the “not enough.”
Behind the “real world.”
The you that feels. The you that is human, The you that is real.
Rib cage expanding, blood pumping, eyelashes batting. Organic. Still.
Back where naivety is just another word for adventure and wrong is just another word for soul-wrenchingly human.
Remind me how you love the edge of jagged cliffs. How it makes you feel exhilarated and alive and like you could fly. How you feel most alive when your body feels in danger, because it reminds you how real you really are, in a world where things are so surreal.
Remind me of the way you trace your fingertips over the words in classic novels, soaking it all in because it makes you feel intelligent and cultured.
Remind me how you had to have your fingers on the strings. How even though you hadn’t the slightest clue, you played until your fingers blistered, on an out-of-tune, beat up thrift store guitar; missing strings and all. How it showed you your determination.
Remind me of the moment you looked out at the stars over the ocean, on a rock in the Pacific; no light pollution, the clearest you’d ever seen them. How that reminded you of the biggest paradox of all. So small, yet made from the great expanses.
Remind me of the afternoon you began to take life lightheartedly. You were driving up a street with quirky yellow homes and literal hole-in-the-wall, walk up diners, with fish tacos on Tuesdays. You wanted to do all the small things for the first time ever. Because they were fascinating and fulfilling and not because they were good long-term decisions or they made you feel more worthy.
Remind me how rain makes you feel a part of something huge. How when you look out through the sheets of water droplets, you see the city in definition and wonder why your eyes can capture things your words can’t.
Remind me of the to-go chai latte melting your hand, and the silence—save for the click of your heels on the pavement. The wind blew through soft curls and you remembered how nice simplicity is. The air had oxygen again, and you had room in your lungs.
Remind me of that month, where magic seeped from door frames and you swayed with the pine trees stretching across the mountains. Through swerving mountain roads, where surrender was your only option, you remembered your power within the impermanence.
Remind me why you love it when people are wordy. Dripping passion and intensity with every syllable. Meaning what they say, memorizing every letter. How they turn it into art with every blink of their sunset eyes—bleeding light.
Remind me why the smell of hairspray and strong coffee tug the corners of your mouth upwards. How it makes you feel seven years old again, hanging on every word and action of the one you look up to most.
Remind me of the night solitude felt like nirvana. How you stepped out of the shower, beads of water rolled down warm flesh. You walked to the edge of the lanai and funneled the energy expended toward a dream, back into yourself. Back into this moment. You didn’t need to jump to feel like you were flying.
Remind me of the little girl. Scraped knees, knotted hair and freckled nostrils, who just wanted to be around people. Because she loved the feeling of companionship and community—things she couldn’t quite understand yet.
Remind me of me.
Remind me of my humanity in a world where things feel so surreal.
Author: McKenzie Victoria Schippert
Image: Author’s own
Editor: Nicole Cameron