We were young and she was willing.
Yet I still wonder what kept me from opening the door. In love’s brutal aftermath when memory is reinvented as pain, all you see is through a very crimson perspective and everything that once was becomes tainted in the memory. Sometimes I wonder what I’m saying, why I’m saying it. I wonder if I’m only trying to justify my actions. Or is it the truth? When you live a lie, you forget what the real truth is. The lie becomes your reality, hence your truth.
I still remember the way your soft smell lingered on my clothes, hours after I had left you. I still remember the last time I held your hand. No matter how much I hated you then, it was still hard to let go. Sometimes the cookie crumbles in funny ways, and this time I just wasn’t in the mood for a laugh. I moved onto better things, but I still can’t get my mind to deny what we had. Even through all the pain, I can’t change the fact that somewhere on a distant day, in a forgotten place in our hearts, you meant the world to me.
So I’ll love you in this moment, and hate you in the next. But please forgive my indecision, I’m only a man.
I don’t know why or what instigated my path to who I am today but my youth was filled with moments where I repeatedly learnt to sabotage my true potential and hideout in a naturally reflexive way. It’s something that came naturally, even when I tried to fight it, I ended up losing to myself and being submissive. My shadow, my fear was merely being visible to the world.
Throughout my whole life, I have never felt free to be who I really was, to feel what I felt, to desire what I desired and to pursue what my nature intended. I became armoured against myself. Until I lost who I was forever. I was trying so hard not to be me at all, that I forgot who I really am. Now I’m lost, wandering aimlessly in my head, searching for an answer. And all the answers I do find are never satisfying, leaving me standing in front of more questions, still searching in vain.
You wake up one day and realize you are not part of your life. The life you lived does not belong to you. Your body is not, your frame of mind is not. There is your life, just living itself and you are just watching from the sidelines. Watching yourself merely exist. And it is then when you stand before this unabashed mirror of truth, that you see who you really are.
Not perfect. Not complete. Not content.
The perfectability of man is God’s bad joke. And nobody gets it until its too late.