So much of what we live goes on inside–
The diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches
What if, like the movie ‘In Time’, you know just how much time you have left, and you are excruciatingly aware of the precious seconds slipping through your fingers? What, then, will you do? Will you love deeper, harder, more fiercely? Will you live with reckless abandon with little care for the consequences, or with urgency? Will you feel everything you feel, with more intensity, and make no apology for that?
I love this place, but I hate it too. It suffocates. “This place” is not physical; it is both a stretch of continuum and the Here and Now. The past, the present, the future. The people, the circumstances, the inevitable Fate. Sometimes, like tonight, it gets breathlessly unbearable. For a long time, I feel like I never quite belonged here – this undefinable place. A square peg in a round hole. Being here but not living in it. I read previous words from different times and places, and they were consistent in my longing to be xxxxx. The only place – that one place – that I feel right is xxxxx xxxxxx xxx, and that is the one place where I cannot be at.
Of unacknowledged love are no less real
For having passed unsaid.
Time is running out. It can be as short as a turn of the head, to as long as a year of waiting. You know that, and you too, but you don’t, and you don’t, and I will tell you, and you one by one.
I wanted to tell you, but there has been no chance to, no right time. There were countless moments where I was teetering at the edge, eyes full of unshed tears, and the words were at the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed them back in. Is there a point in telling? I wonder. Will that change anything? Do I want something to? But all these questions, do they matter? Somehow, it is important that you know.
[It is ironic that I write this today, this day, where the end and the beginning meet and collide. No one will understand this – maybe not even you – but that is alright, we all see in different stories.]
…… every smile,
………… every word,
I am memorising them. How can something so consistent and strong be so fleeting and uncertain at the same time?
Give me a reason to xxxx, just one.
I know that will be met with silence and maybe helplessness.
What we conceal
Is always more than what we dare confide.
Think of the letters that we write our dead.
Would you have done things differently if you, you and you had known earlier?