I like the word "echo."
I like to think that something echoes inside of me.
I like to imagine that my heart resounds with some unfinished symphony.
Echoes are associated with an emptiness, something forgotten, abandonment.
But I'm full of echoes.
I'm so full of echoes that sometimes I think I'm made of them.
I echo of whales and baseball and Hotel California. I echo of that old Instant Messenger trill and muffin walks and salty seas. I echo of his lyrics that play on repeat every day, all day.
"You're not obnoxious, period." "I really meant that, just so you know." "Don't fall in love with me." "Warm and cuddly and beautiful." "And that's when Kim lost it." "Dance with me." "What would you say if I didn't think you were beautiful anymore?" "Even if it's just in your heart, I'd like you to wait for me." "Seriously, you looked so good." "Don't tell, but I'll miss Kimberly the most." "How are you today, Miss Pellegrini?" "You are my sunshine."
The echoes never stop. They make me who I am. The noise is sometimes faint and sometimes deafening, but they always clatter inside of me.
I'm filled to the brim with echoes.
Is that a good thing? Does that proved that I've lived in some form? Does that mean I've made an impact on someone, somewhere, somehow? Or is it another testament that I can never let go? That I drive the fishing hooks of my memory into my heart and I can't pull them out?
Am I an echo? Hollow? A remnant?
I don't think so.
But I like that they ricochet so beautifully inside of me.