No love without freedom.
“I know exactly how they read me as a person. Let it be; I’ll leave here alive.”
The road were narrow. The canals were black like expensive mirror they polished. The full moon was hanging big in the clear sky, yellow; big damn spotted yellow. She walked on with the speed of heeled boots, violently pulled up her neck warmer and tucked her hands deeper inside the pockets of her plain black coat.
Like a sudden deep slice just over the skin of her heart, she felt a pang of yearning. Of what she wouldn’t know. She felt misunderstood, left alone, and somehow betrayed. Who did it to you? She wouldn’t know.
Feeling offended of her self accusation, she defended her own feelings; making her points with delusions.
You’re so high come visit me, damn spotted yellow orb.
The cold burnt her face and then tears melt it away. She looked down to the shiny road, oh what a cynical. Oh what a cynical! She walked faster and regretted it even faster, for she slipped and almost fell down. Thank god and sue you boots! She blew out a harsh mist, took a deep breath. Her eyes fell on a window across the street. Yellow light was busting out, framed by the red suede curtain. The warmth and laugh flowing out of it, flooding her heart out to the inside with a slight joy and a burst of tears. Why does she even keep her tears inside her heart? The tears emptied her heart and it was painful. She saw the little girl with the ponytail sitting just towards the window, looked pleased with her meal. The daddy had a deep conversation with the boys, probably about the gift the parents would give.
She was stunned, overwhelmed by how ordinary the scene was. Where’s the mommy? Ah, there she come, with a freaking pile of salad and joy. She tried to look for the dissemblance out of the mommy’s smile. But the longer she stared, the happier the mommy seemed to be; and it made her retch.
She’s done observing people’s happiness. She’s done looking for happiness in anyone nor anything. She’s done pretending to be happy. Done trying so hard to display it to the people around her. It’s just the game she could’t play anymore. She didn’t possess it, didn’t value it, didn’t think it was somehow necessary for a person’s existence — for herself. She can live, it’s been months however, without happiness, hope, sadness, love, care. Whatever.
But then the tears was still there, accompanied her in silence.
From the warm window to the dark white pavement. From a stunned gaze to the reality: her denial.
She read a lot about the emotionless people. She heard a lot about it. She wanted it a lot. But she never though she’d be this weak when the emotions were carried away. Far, far away; would it ever be back? She used to think some people are different just because they are different and there was no other reason. No need for any. It is personality, y’know. But no, she didn’t know. She didn’t see it coming. She never imagined it would be this hard to deal with people when one is lack of emotion, when one is not excited about life.
I am the way, the truth and life.
Oh man. A man with a nail-scarred hands was the last thing she’d ever needed. What she needed was, she needed to be herself again, to get her emotions back again. She needed to be excited about life again. She used to like to sing. She used to be contented whenever she sang just because she liked it and there was no other reason. No need for any. She used to like to write stories. Her stories were flowing and the characters were jumping here and there with excitement. Now her inspiration dried out and she brought her readers into dark forest with the most viscous dementors to deal with. She used to have dreams. Plenty of them. She used to think she’s young and vibrant and… and now lost.
She stepped inside her apartment, put the key carefully and threw out her boots to the corner. She lumbered inside her dark room and sit there in silence.
She got a text.
“Sorry?” Her entire room freezed. She stared blankly on the screen and finally locked it.
And the light was completely gone.
Nothing haunts like the what-ifs, nothing kills like a failing hope. But one may recover. One could be recovered.
Nothing heal like the nailed-scarred hand. Love may recover. Love can recover.
To a stranger.
I’ve read your writings for three years and counting. I admired you and I still do.
My prayers be with you, at least for this month.