Myself

You were right all this time. And I was wrong along the forged path I walked towards you. You saw the truth; I chose to be blind, and deaf, and dumb. Out of fear? Out of guilt? Who knows. Now I’m just numb, but for the better. That was not my path. No more illusions, no more acting, no more pretending. Me with myself – here’s a scary thought, but, God!, so necessary. It didn’t mean a thing, not for a fraction of time. Half past denial, straight into my suppressed conscience.

How could I look at it as real if I wasn’t? When losing myself between tiptoes and doubts, I should’ve known it’s nothing than make-believe. A morgana island in an ocean of nonsense that I started swimming to, despite the rapids. Exhausted, I bury my face in the sand, though it’s not the inspiring piece of land, but a deserted continent where I lay. A lost world to be rediscovered, a challenge I’m not sure I can handle. First, I should be the one uncovered. And here’s the burden. The disbeliever in me heard it calling, but refused to see it come; no more…

I forgot how it’s like to be me. Truly me, unveiled. I put on shoes with silent soles when all I wanted was to pound. I clenched my teeth behind the muzzle instead of screaming things out loud. I refrained although I should’ve imposed. I’ve been such a fake all this time that I’m surprised I can even tell the difference. It was not real because I wasn’t. Depraved, sick, unearthly, tormenting, incredible, stained, excruciating, beautiful. False. It was me the greatest falsity of all.

I didn’t want to be convicted for my thoughts; but those thoughts were the bricks of my being. I was so scared of repeating the same mistakes over again; but those mistakes were part of my becoming. I searched for haven in caresses and whispers that not only were strangers to me, but estranged me from my soul. Now it’s all gone, and I can’t find myself among the ruins. But I have to live through the punishment for dreaming, now that the dream is over. For there’s a purpose: me as a whole. No one else, and still enough.

You played well; skilled and composed, no blinking, by the rules nonetheless. I could only recall the ways of gambling, full moon madness. For me, it was all or nothing. Ironically, all and nothing. At least, you opened my lids before losing my sanity to gain chaos in return. You reminded me the essence, the one and only rhyme I should’ve tuned: I don’t deserve to dream. Present tense is my realm, I have no use or right for reverie.

Patience… No rush, just patience. And lots of narcotics. Detachment as a lullaby, then understanding – in and out. Therefore, forgiveness instead of perdition. Small steps, self-control and the belief in a higher power. If all pieces come together right, there’ll be a different kind of love in the end – full, complete, unaltered. If not… well, if not, I guess I’ll see the reflections on a tombstone, cold as ice, with faded letters on a side. It will say: Myself.

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