I'm writing this because I think I’ve finally cracked. Don’t get me wrong; this doesn’t go to serve the purpose of seeing the pity written all over your face as I walk past you daily knowing that my less-than-whole soul has been returned to my cold hands with nothing but a promise of friendship and a reminder that we can never be. No.
This is to provide myself with clarity, closure if you may. The question of my connection to you has been under scrutiny; not only by the prying and concerned hearts of the family we have chosen for ourselves, but also by my cold heart which rejects the possibility of finding something that can cause it to warm up and begin to do something other than keep my body functional.
I don’t long for your pitiful and weakening comfort, I yearn for something deeper. My soul craves for the very essence of what it is that dims the light inside of your eyes whenever they wander around a room and are finally met with my own. I long for the depth of your voice and the thickness of your lips to envelope my name in what they all presume is a connection we aren’t yet ready for. I yearn for the serenity of your smile as a reassurance that what I think I feel is uttered bull. Yes that’s right. I yearn for the denial that I have to live up to in theory and also in practice to be echoed by a mind other than my own knowing very well that such an echo could potentially cause my already shattered pieces to crumble even further into a nothingness that will allow for the creation of a new and different me. A me that is good enough.
This isn’t love, I keep saying, It’s much deeper. It is what causes the richness of the earth to come alive after light rain in the form of a deep smell. It is what causes the ice to break away from my tainted heart and it is what causes my mind to remove all barriers and to accept that nothing is truly as it seems to be. It is the very essence of humanity; the raw and profound nature that (wo)man possessed even before we were. It is the primal instinct that causes one to long for the natural odor of a compatible mate.
Don’t get me wrong; I understand the implications of this confessions. But in order for the beauty of a rainbow to occur, it must first rain.
I too am astounded by my brave stupidity. My inability to hold it together like the uncaring part of me keeps reminding me to sends shock waves that you cannot even begin to imagine through my entire body; it sends the core of my cold heart into a temporary shut-down phase where neither feeling nor thought can seep into me; where confusion becomes me I become confusion and we fuse into a common being that has an understanding that is beyond the human mind of the true nature of the things we feel. However, this is deeper than the daily argument I go through with my pride about whether or not you deserve to know.
The truth is you do, but you can’t. You have her. And no matter how hard I try to reconcile myself with this fact, and no matter how many flaws I see in this perfect reality that your mind has created for you, I can’t help but think that she wasn’t, isn’t and can never be enough. But then again, neither can I. The sisterly part of me wants to make you aware of the fact that you are enough. Aware of the fact that you cannot continue to torture yourself, and to use her as your glorified pawn in an effort to compensate for your own insecurities. But the part that connects with you? Well this part is much too afraid to display the traits that you seem to welcome about this being I pose as. I can’t begin to let you see just how deep this part runs as this threatens even the little contact that I have with you already. But in order for rebirth to occur, something first needs to die. I am not certain, however, of how much my heart welcomes the idea of potentially losing you for this eternity only to find you again in another. My heart rebukes the thought of distancing myself from your menacing antics that leave me feeling as if I’ve just awoken from my usual dream of a never-ending fall. As scary as this road may seem it is much scarier than the unknowingly lost pieces of myself that I think I might have discovered in the strained conversations, awkward silences and nods of incomplete understanding that we often find ourselves in. Found ourselves. Found. Us. You. Me. Us.
I’m pretty sure I’ve finally cracked by now. The lines between friends, family and whatever it is that this connection leads us to are more evident than ever not only in my head but also in the peace offering you gave to me and to yourself. “a caring sister who cares so much”. Sister. Friend. Sister. It is only now that such nouns begin to bother even the strongest and most unshaken granite walls which I keep hidden in my deepest of archives. Sister.
I’m selfish with you, but, sister, I can’t bear the thoughts of not looking through your concerned eyes and not being able to tell you that what’s wrong is me; sister, friend, truthful these should not be words that are used by you to describe me. Us in its present form is what’s wrong. What’s wrong is the fact that I can’t get your glorious mind away from my being long enough to remain objective as I’ve reminded myself countless times to be. What’s wrong is that I have him and his heart matters to me so much that I’m willing to overlook the fact that happy could mean content and resentful for me. That even if you asked me to, I could never leave him because of the purity of his heart and soul. What’s wrong is that awareness is starting to find its way into your eyes which betray your soul so easily but also so rarely. What’s wrong is that I wish oblivion would find its way back into my thoughts and dreams so that I would no longer be haunted by the ghost of a knowing look which passes each time I catch you staring for no apparent reason or when you catch yourself walking nearer to me only to stand there with nothing to say. What’s wrong is that instead of the perfect story where the shero saves her dude in distress we are stuck in a spiral of unclear emotions and invisible strings which tie us both to our situations of content.
What’s wrong is me. How can my own body have betrayed me so easily and without me suspecting a thing? Did this happen because I was too busy enjoying the brotherly piggy-back rides and inside jokes which had no fundamental substance? Did this happen because I was too busy creating an escape path for your own troubled soul to cater for the needs of my own damaged soul that it got entrapped by you because of a common understanding?
What’s wrong is you. You coaxed me into jumping into the deep-end without realising my inability to swim myself back to safety only for you to come across as the oblivious bystander that you actually are. What’s wrong is your ability to do what my mind and soul can seemingly no longer do. Float.
If there’s one thing I maintain it’s that some bridges need to burn in order for us not to find ourselves walking right back into the arms of the painful past. Unfortunately; during this burning process the waters of the river beneath the bridge were drained through my tears of sorrow for patriarchy’s nasty head had speared in my life once more. So once again, twice again and thrice again I find myself walking down the steep and lonely passage of the connection which hinders my daily routine and shuts my thought processes down. I spiral up and down stairs of what seems to be progression, but is only the road that leads right back to where the shattered pieces of my heart are placed right back into my cold hands for safe keeping once more.