When Can I Stop Writing About You?
I was on my bed. Always. Staring at the ceiling, my whole body was numb, while my heart ran from my ribs, thinking that I can’t protect it from the pain I have.
I was on my bed, devouring myself, barely floating from the sea of despair.
I am like a bed, carrying the weight of not oneself but else’s. Keeping the balance to stand up is pretty hard, as this weight goes heavier every single day.
It was you, whom I am carrying. Heavy. Titanic. Gigantic. I can’t find the exact words to emphasize how hard it is to carry you, in my heart and mind.
Once, I carried you in my back, I felt my fats resonate with yours, fused as one, which was both a miracle and a curse. A miracle, for being felt that I was your brother, that we were connected not by our blood but something else. Something that made me feel that I was yours and you were mine.
But it was a curse, however, to resonate with you. It felt like all the past that had happened, all of it was like a grain of sand vanishing from the blow of the wind, which is totally an arrow through my flesh, even though we both have feast in it.
A lot of times, when I think about you, I find words to describe how I feel, how the pain gets deeper, and why I still live with the universal three-words of this world. However, it is four-words, actually: Still. I, still, love, you. You are my “still”. My constant person whom I suffer, and I love.
I have written a lot about us; about you. From letters, to essays. From prose, to poetry. For all those thousands of words, one thing is for sure: you’re still here. A shadow, tailing me because of our past. Memories that keep hunting me. Endless dreams that push me at the edge of my bed.
You are here, still.
But it is an illusion, then, to feel your presence, your aura, your shadow. My friends and family might say or have said to me that I am stupid for hanging at that cliff of expectations.
But if this is stupidity, please, wake me up.
Shock my fingers so I can stop seeing our pictures. Cut my head so I can stop thinking about him. Crush my heart so it could taste the long term satisfaction of cutting the shackle.
But there is a mysterious current that keeps holding me back from doing these essential actions to move forward, even though you already let go.
Do I have to stop writing about you?
No.
I can’t let you go; will not let you go. In which is a hard choice to make, a choice that took me ages to realize its existence.
The answer is no, final, no backing out, period.
I will continue to tell our beautiful story,
Forever.