Steve - Is Prolific

So I've been writing and generally creating a lot lately. I like it. I hope 2009 continues in this direction.

It snowed today. That's unrelated.

It's nothing special, but here is what I wrote (maybe, kinda). It's a true story.

Unclaimed Property

I picked you, at random, I think.

You were there, one of many, scattered across a folder named 'writings'. I opened you up. At first I thought you were an old love, but not old as in well-loved, but old as in not-well-formed. You were in a word document, I never use word documents now. Just plain old plain text, notepad. The tool of the young coder has become the tool of the old writer.

But you weren't an old love. You were an alien. I sat there, staring at you, trying to work out what you were doing there in my writing folder, and--more importantly--who wrote you.

'Beautifully Intoxicated.'

It sounded like a title I'd write. In fact, I think I might have used that exact title some time in my past. But the writing style wasn't like any I remember from myself, and the plot structure wasn't mine either, nor the font. And I'd never use so many new lines everywhere. And I'd be more intuitive with my text. And I'd not write in that tone... full of uncaring, and emotional lust, and menace.

But I was in it.

There were two characters. One was the narrator. The other was someone else.

"I'd have given anything for you.
I didn't have to though, you were mine."

But which is me? Which am I?

"You'd have hated me thinking of you like that wouldn't you?
The notion of being a possession.
So proud of your independence, telling people that you didn't need anyone.
Only, I knew you needed me."

So I sat there trying to think who wrote you. I printed you out and read you again. And you meant more. And you were more mysterious. And I still didn't know who wrote you. Not her. Not her. Not her. Her?

"I'd wanted to get out of the house so we took a drive into the countryside.
We'd often do this, leave.
Not tell anyone where we were going, if we had each other then who else mattered?
I think that you were afraid one day I would leave and not tell anyone where I was going.
You were afraid I'd leave you behind."

Go where? Leave where? Get out of where? Who are you? Who is You?

Maybe you were planted there. Maybe I wrote you. Maybe I wrote you when I wasn't myself, or I was asleep, or under some duress I can't recall. Maybe you and I are the same person, two characters in one person. Isn't that what writers do anyway? Maybe the you and the I are both me, two sides of the same coin. What does that mean?

"You were my every thought, you were my air.
It was ironic that sometimes I felt suffocated by you."

The tense changes.

"I feel you slip your hand into mine.
Elegant hands you have, as if you wouldn't have used them for a dirty deed in your life.
Appearances can be deceiving however."

I feel myself wrapped up in your words. Like you were made for it, like I'm your rock and you're the paper.

And again.

"Do you remember the first time we held hands? I do.
In the taxi back from that art exhibition that bored us both senseless.
We assured each other we enjoyed it though, for fear of upsetting the other in the tender first stages of our friendship.
I adored the feeling of your hand in mine.
That small smile you gave me let me know that the feeling was reciprocal."

Why is it all in past tense?

My face is numb with cold and I feel it start to rain
I turn to see droplets of water falling onto your ivory skin but you don't notice.
You peer at me with those Bette Davis Eyes and I see that small smile again.
You know I am yours.
I whisper in your ear, relishing the smell of your skin.
"Let's go home."