Heartbreaking in secret

I don’t know when it started… that I just stopped existing in your life. I was occupied and bent to kept myself occupied. I had this habit of arranging things around me—moving the chair here, removing an old box, replacing a container, finding new and different uses to a bottle, a can, or an unlikely vase. I thought that if I move things here and there, I’d be fixing my own state of mind, that I could successfully maneuver my inner flow to blend with the objects that surround us which is part of our reality. In short, I just wanted to fix us.

But it’s complicated. It always was. There is more to you and me than objects, angles, shadows, light, dark, or… home.

One room

We can’t make conversations. We tried. Now, I guess it was all in vain. I sort of just gave up. I turned to my books, binge-reading now and then. Last week, I’ve finished Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. It’s a good book not because this is Plath, or because she had one of the most beautiful collection of vocab. It’s more than that: actually, she’s awesome at making internal conversations—the kind I could have with myself but I can’t do with you. Not that I didn’t tried. Oh, I just said that, sorry. Remember that time I asked you why I had to apologize while you can’t (or you won’t) even when you’re at fault? You thought I was becoming… too smart. Perhaps, that’s why all throughout this time you’ve made it a habit to constantly pick on my bad habits, on my mistakes, basically, everything. Just as I’ve made it a mission to fix the chaos of objects, you’ve made yours a mission, too. To fix me by pointing out everything that’s wrong with me. If we compared notes, yours had always been so direct. Either way, we didn’t get close to where we should be. I end up hating you. You hate me just as well.

And I stayed in my room for refuge. I have there my books and my inner conversations.

A ghost

I must have talked in my head for too long. The conversations have waged on and on (until now). The gap grew big, it’s now a gaping hole. Before I know it, I saw myself as a ghost, a selective apparition who chooses to show herself when she had to, or as routine demands. I do my chores. I still arrange the boxes, the chairs, and even wipe the dust off old furniture. But there’s no longer any “fixing” for both of us.



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