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By Design

By RadaR

I once read that the strongest trigger for suppressed memories are hidden with in our sense of smell. I strongly agree, for it is in the wind again today. Someone is wearing that scent, throwing my mind in a rage and my memory into a spiral. I only need the smallest molecule to cross my path, and I can find the source. Like a bloodhound, I can sniff the trail an hour old. On the streets, among the crowds, across the many odors of the busy street life, I will find the source in hopes that I may find her. In the desire that I may remember what happened the last time we met.

My memory has not lapsed, I have not forgotten that evening. Mine is just a small dream that what my memory holds may be a creation of a rational mind trying to deal with something it does not wish to. As the norm, it is all involved in love. The urban-legend is that truelove only crosses your path but once in life, and if that moment is not recognized and seized then you will be doomed to “settle” on what life-partner may cross your trail. This person may not be the most wonderful, beautiful, gorgeous…etc., but will be a very dear friend that you would not mind spending the rest of your life with and raising a family, so you do.

True love was the one girl that was way out of your league, until the moment she loved you; and from that moment you knew that forever would not be enough time to be near her. From the first glance across the band-hall, in high school, to the stunning little beauty in blue jeans, and white boots, gently hugging her flute-case in her arms. The hazel eyes peering across the room from behind a group of her friends, between mid-length blonde bangs. She was the one I knew I had not a snowflakes chance in hell with, but I fell for instantly. I walked across the room and stepped into the circle, and began to meet everyone. I was obscenely social in my early days of high school, in the hopes to hide how insecure I was about myself. Most everyone, on first sight, would know I was a punker-geek-band-fag. I always wore the same destroyed, holy jeans, new-wave t-shirts of The Cure and Depeche Mode. I had bleached blond hair to my shoulder, shaved on the back and sides, five earrings, and black leather, knee high boots that laced down the back; but I knew that I was a great guy (if only convinced by myself). The introductions went well, and the thermos of rum-and-coffee was handed to me as if it were the key to the executive washroom. To my particular dismay, those hazel eyes were peering through me as if to discover my deepest secrets. She only need ask of me, and I would do anything for her.