“The difference between my darkness and your darkness is that I can look at my own badness in the face and accept its existence while you are busy covering your mirror with a white linen sheet…”
I have been having continuous, overwhelming thoughts about many plans that haven’t worked out lately. Yes, it feels like this year has already laid down the foundation. It’s telling me in bold flash cards: Sorry you, this is not going to be your year, now go stand there in the corner and whine because that’s what you get for unbounded expectations.
This Thursday afternoon, I realized the only person who is ever there at your pity party is yourself. You are the only you who can be you. So when you stop taking the blame for everything, start thinking that everything essentially goes wrong because of the pathetic dimwits that have been placed in your life in abundance, you begin to cover up your own flaws with a thinly coated sheet of paint. When a person tells you something you’ve done, you feel accused. When someone brings up your name in a sentence, you feel mocked. Every time you try to be precocious, you have someone just so intellectually inadequate to understand what it is you’re trying to prove.
A thought entangled deep inside me like a thread of candy floss stuck in a molar; finally came free: Maybe, just maybe the flaw is in you. Ever considered that?
“…The difference between my sins and your sins is that when I sin I know I’m sinning while you have actually fallen prey to your own fabricated illusions…”
I am a talkative person when I want to be. I narrate day-to-day stories the way a poet would describe the dusty, old attic in an abandoned house. My narratives, I daresay are exquisitely detailed. This, I have come to realize can be very painful for some ears. Of course, I could ridicule these humans for their lack of sheer fondness regarding the important things that I just have to talk about. But lately, I have been wondering if I should just give up and pretend that probably no one but me could care much about what I am saying. Also, for what it’s worth, life is (somewhat) easier now.
Someone can feel vibrant as a rainbow when they’re with you. They will do everything they can to make you feel that way about yourself. But you don’t. And it’s just there. Like an elephant in the room. The two wildly different interpretations about a single human being. Make that two elephants and a rather tiny room.
“…I am a siren, a mermaid; I know that I am beautiful while basking on the ocean’s waves and I know that I can eat flesh and bones at the bottom of the sea…”
Once you know how a person interprets your existence, you can manoeuvre the person as and how you wish. I don’t understand how everyone is so oblivious to this. No one does anything about this unseen, grim brutality. Except certain loud people, who yell and scream and make themselves heard, only to be labelled.
I daydream. I create situations in my head consciously and drift away into them, subconsciously. I found myself in a corridor of unending doors. It’s unnerving how every door held a different possibility. You were behind one of them. It is pretty people like you who always get to be on the receiving end. Unsettling people like me have to make all the difficult choices and wield my way through balustrades of difficult emotions to get to you. So I stand in the corridor of what seems like the awry part of a horror movie where fear finally starts to jolt you.
I try every door and time is running out. And I don’t know what it even means to go through this ordeal anymore. But get to you I must, is what I tell myself. Somewhere in that infinitesimal moment when I step through a door and unsurprisingly don’t find you there, somewhere between that panic and remorse and self-induced disappointment, I feel a certain reassurance. Okay really, what can be reassuring about not finding what you’re looking for, I ridicule myself every time.
“…You are a white witch, a wizard; your spells are manipulations and your cauldron is from hell, yet you wrap yourself in white and wear a silver wig.”
It is the last door. You have got to be here. I step in hastily and step through. The walls collapse. My sighs linger, like smoke in the air. Unwanted yet somehow resilient. It was in finding you that I realized I needed to find me. The reassurance I sensed in stepping through every door was that I will always have one person, the only one I will ever need to walk me through all doors of life. And that is unsurprisingly, me.