When I was five, I used to look right into the Sun with big, dreamy eyes, because I thought the Sun felt sad when nobody else did. Like maybe one five year old girl out of over six billion people could make a difference. I never understood why everyone shied away from looking at the Sun directly. I guess that’s how I felt when you entered the story- like they never understood you, and I just had to unravel this mystery you brought along. And so thirteen years later, I had dreamy eyes, once again. Too big and bright and naïve. That’s when I finally figured out that even sunshine burns when you look too much, too hard for the secrets.
You have become a shadow my body leaves on the people I come across. Like the tattoo painted across my body in skin color that appears out of nowhere when I suntan. It’s making people wonder if my veins are whispering my secrets to the world off its own accord.
Once every four days and half, I still believe you’re here. On the days I forget how to exist without you, I lie, like waves on the shore, hoping to crash against the dams built inside me.
I have a growing list of things that I know will make you laugh and I don’t know where to put them.
I preferred dead flowers to the living ones you plucked out of the garden for me. This way, I never had to watch something as it ceased to exist. Kind of like she did, when you left her. I never understood how she could be so dependent on someone she’d just met seven months go. How all color just drained out of her face, and her eyes looked bloodshot.
When you left ten months, six days, and fourteen hours after we first met, I understood what she felt like.
I read about addiction the other day, and how some people were addicted because they had nowhere else to be, nothing else to do- that during the Vietnam war, twenty per cent of U.S. soldiers became addicted to heroine; but 95 per cent of those addicted soldiers simply stopped using the drug once they were back. They shifted from a terrifying cage back to a pleasant one, so didn’t want the drug any more. I’m afraid you are an addiction I don’t want to be weaned away from.
There is a science study that says that when you’re remembering an incident, you’re really remembering the last time you thought about it, and not the actual incident. It’s funny, because it’s as if every second I spent with you is fading away… including this one. Like I can never really remember the first time our fingers brushed against each other, or when we first clasped each other like the world would fall apart if we let go, or when we shared our first smoke. We don’t have moments anymore. All we really have are memories.
I once paid a man, six dollars to write about us. The only thing he could come up with was cigarettes, milkshakes, and something about a black canvas. I’ve never liked the idea of black canvases.
I lay awake last night, trying to figure out where the smell was coming from. The kind of burning that takes over when your house is reduced to ashes, when you lose everything you ever owned, when it takes all you have not to wither away like a flower with no fragrance left. It took me three days to realize that it wasn’t a burning appliance, it was me.
My mother taught me when I was young, to think of all I love, and all I care about, before I sleep. We’d together chant a prayer and I used to fall asleep in her arms. Nine years forth, George R.R. Martin taught me otherwise; about never forgetting the people who once harmed me, or the ones who betrayed. About remembering that bastard’s name every night, and never letting myself forget. I thought of him, and I thought of my mum, and how both of them seemed to say, “Good night, sleep tight, I’m here if need be.” I think of you before I sleep.