After forty five months of feeling like a bandaged wound, I opened my window today.
The window that led to an abstract corner of my soul where a part of me sat whispering vicious lies of hope. As you might expect, it’s a dark and misty room and that part of me doesn’t sound as hopeful anymore.
But this person, here in front of you, hopes to lighten it a little.
I open it bit by bit, a little every time. I stop before the temptation of shutting it back again takes over me.
Every little opening is a jar of memory replacing the six boxes under my bed that are now empty from all the cathartic burning I’ve had to do.
Every little opening comes like a wave of weariness cornering my intentions into giving up.
Every little opening, I know, will always be a few miles away and I won’t reach there till I’ve sweated and cursed and questioned enough of the cosmos with no answers in return because there are none.
Not for you, not for me.
After forty five months of feeling like a bandaged wound, I look at the world with eyes that are slightly less swollen from all the jabs I’ve been enduring.
I see colours. Colours that have filtered through prisms of paranoia but reached me nonetheless.
Colours that seep into my fingernails and appear like confetti falling from the sky in the middle of a usual day.
Colours that fill the gaps between my teeth as I utter words that have been resting in the attic of my mind, safely locked, rusting in vulnerability while the world looks for them.
“They are not in my mouth anymore” is what I told them.
I am yet to find out if that’s true.
After forty five months of feeling like a bandaged wound, proximity didn’t scare me today.
The texture of your secrets felt better than a warm cup of coffee.
Which impressed me because I don’t do coffee. Ever.
A terrifying need to back away and go back to whispering sweet nothings of disdain returned to me with its arms wide open.
I took a step back, my right palm held tightly in the intimacy of my left, as I mentally counted the number of months I had spent feeling like I was swimming against the current when in fact
I hadn’t been swimming at all.