I’ve become this shell of a person.
Neither wanting too much, nor needing too little. Except that everything that seems important is hidden away, too secret for me to discover. And everything that I think to be so trivial is all my eyes are able to capture behind my corneas. My heart can’t comprehend your absence in my sight. Now all it can feel is what’s like not to feel.
Those tempered moments of fluid respiration you used to inspire in me have vanished. Although I’m beginning to wonder if you were ever here in the first place, or if I’d just imagined your laughter in my ear. Because it seems my imagination has truly gotten the best of me lately as I follow superfluous ideas of you and me walking hand in hand in the chilly autumn air. And I can’t shake the feeling of your arms around me.
This is what writing has done to me. I’ve lost myself in fantasy. Because clearly you do not exist, except in my self-destructive memories of things that have never happened. We have never met, and I cannot begin to recall your name as it has never danced along my tongue. None of what I’d thought has come to be reality. I always hoped it was a self-professing prophecy. I’m not so sure anymore that I have the power to make my own future based off fairy tales and Hollywood endings. Real life isn’t like that.
Fiction likes to tease me in my loneliness. Skipping around me, singing “na-na-na-na-na, you can’t catch me.” Apathy has taken over romanticism and put it to shame at ever trying to prevail. Cynicism and bitterness have come along to shelter my fragile heart from the rainstorm of almosts and indefinite maybes. Fiction taunts me. All the time. Don’t think me a fool in the gravity of the situation that leaves me alone in cold sheets at night.
My damage control is faulty. Some pieces of me are irreparable and I’ll never be the same after this. He should know that. I do. I know that he can’t fix me. He won’t even try. But he thinks he can fill me up, remold me from the inside. And I hesitate, because I know I’ll still feel empty. Maybe even more so than before. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t even try. And yet he whispers to me, is everything alright?
No it’s not. I’m not okay most days. I know how it sounds. And some days, it’s exactly how it sounds. Like today, when I’m waiting for someone who might never show up, when I’m hoping that he’ll call and whisper how he can fill this emptiness up, knowing that it will never work the way we’d like it to. You see, I know these things, but I find them hard to believe anyway.
Possibility has always been my vice, a temptation all too sweet not to taste. Yet it always leaves my heart bitter and sour–incapable of wholeness, as others take a souvenir and go along their way to visit other monuments and make them incomplete–yet giving more to those who pass by than keeping any of it to myself until I am a shell of who I was, except I’m not sure I know who that was anymore.
So to me, you will always be fiction. As fiction will always be just beyond my reality. Because even reality fools me. And I will succumb to giving myself to the man who I know will never love me, just for the chance to feel something. Because the idea of something, is better than nothing. That is what this emptiness has taught me.