Jam Jar

I live in the past. The past is located nowhere; I keep it in a jam jar on my bedside table. The jam jar contained jam once, but now it is full of air and specks of nothing. I stare at it before bed, I talk a little in its direction, quietly, and then when I sleep I am inside it, staring out at the world of my bedroom, smiling a tremendous smile.

When I am thirsty I can go and turn the tap on, hold a glass under it, switch the tap off and gulp the water down in five seconds flat. When I am hungry I can put some bread in the toaster, wait for it to pop up and then eat it dry from a cracked plate until I think I might choke. Whatever I require, I can have.

I take this to mean that the thing I need the most I will one day get. The thing that I need, in every possible way, not just physically, is not here, but one day, somehow, it will return.

So I keep the idea of you in a jam jar, to remind me what is coming one day. I watch the specks of nothing intently, thinking that they may be specks of you in the past, or perhaps in the present, somewhere. I think about parallel universes; the specks of nothing may be something somewhere else; the nowhere may be somewhere. Nobody knows the answers. Nobody has ventured that far. I intend to.

So when I reach the summit, it is with the jam jar. I am on the very top of the world. My blood is the texture of porridge, apparently. My lungs are slow. I would very much like to eat a boiled egg. The sky is everywhere, including at my feet. I know that now. I know that everything is there, right there, where I can touch it. As I fall, I hear you saying "I love you" and I say that I love you too. I do. I do.

One day, I will be back. If I am needed, I will return.