Written By T.O.
I’d love to claim that what I’ve done in my life is of my doing, but in fact, it is not at all.
I’ve blown around in the wind like a mad thing with muddy, patchy shoes, sweaty T-shirts, and torn hoody jackets. Smelling like an ashtray when the morning breeze didn’t mix my aura with the other elements of the atmosphere. I’ve blown around in it too, like a piece of paper hither and thither never having my mind in one place. If I ever had a mind, at all. That is why I’ve always falsely thought if I loved her enough I could stop her from crying. If I held her in my arms enough I could build a castle for her around them. If I woke up first in the morning, next to her after our sex had seeped through the walls, she wouldn’t feel sunken again, and if I lived for her she wouldn’t consider death the hardest part ever again… But she burnt all our bridges and with no bridge, you’ve got to learn how to swim or fly.
Birds are like humans, constantly longing for another life. They are in fact people, people with cracks. I could never resemble a bird, though. I was always unable to calculate my distance from the ground. However, the scorch on my skin from our bridge’s flames is not enough to assure me I was an individual once. Much less one with humane traits. Sometimes, some moments, I stand frozen, glass in hand, mouth gaping, and my brain so congested with the number of questions that I am incapable of articulating them. I gulp the remains of my drink only to keep my mouth from howling in the void.
I’m making circles in it. Starting from nowhere, going nowhere. You tackle one of them a little bit and it becomes vicious, at once. As I lose myself in it, I acknowledge my sullied ego and wonder who has control. Who comes first. Last night, I wished to wash away these mortal sins, and with the morning’s rain let go. But wishful thinking never works. Making up will never be true making.
I try to imagine how the day I will stop loving her will be. How comfortable the night will be in my cold bed. How easily I will count only my presence in my dreams. Number two has always been overrated, after all. I have two eyes and I couldn’t see her when she was here.
Now I see her everywhere. I went to the doctor for these constantly open eyes. To check their incorrect vision record. I thought I had this illness called: static control, because I’m immobile and motionless again when I see her in every place, in every crowd. I stand still to control every corner. Not to miss a single glimpse of her. I don’t even blink.
He said that in Physics this is the free-falling phenomenon, but in love, it’s called confession. The one using the method of one touch and a thousand words. I was dear to touch her pillow next to mine. To feel her empty spot. And words start tumbling down. But I say none. Momentarily I recover, fluent in silence, as the scream I don’t utter, is again the lullaby that is supposed to put me to sleep… Yet, I still don’t close my eyes. I’ll lose her sight If I do.
The monsters under the bed keep me company and distract me from leaping to the conclusion that one day I’ll get back everything. Myself at least. But, lately, they have started to crawl up and it’s getting crowded. So, I sit on the lower surface of the room, the one that anything can step over me. On the floor. Whenever uninvited exhaustion prevails, I try to count the tiles to help me fall asleep. But I can only count up to one.
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