I spend too much time falling in love with memories that my mind has dusted, soaped up, and wiped down. However, my infatuation never seems to be with people but more so with a distortion of the truth; an illusion of who they really are. Sometimes this is not at all based on any real understanding of them, but on a fantasy I created of who I needed them to be in that moment that I orchestrated their role in my mind. Why can’t I ever see people without creating some narrative about them that convinces me of their personalities and characteristics, when in fact it is for them to show me what I need to see?
The sky is orange. It’s dark but it’s orange. At least that’s what it appears to be, looking out of my window passed the burglar bars and into this thing they call the night- this sinister phenomenon of the sky. This defibrillator seen to be restoring the order of sin and adventure to once stilled hearts. Sadness, seduction, rage, miscommunication, mistake, malice. We’ll hear their voices in the street. But at the sight of the rising sun, all will be made well or excused and we will wonder; what is it about the orange sky.
I hate the idea of conformity. The idea that I must adopt attitudes, emulate popular personalities and borrow my opinions from social trends- all in effort to remain predictable, consistent and liked. I see no reason to risk my autonomy by blending into someone’s idea of a well-behaved sheep.
I loved him because he made me feel beautiful on the inside.
You see I’m not. I’m not very beautiful on the inside.
But he was.
And I learned from him.
And I became more beautiful.
The worst thing about loving someone is having to stop when you realise that nothing will ever make that love enough. No tireless effort will change the reality that your words can’t morph into sounds they want to hear. No rationalisations they give you will reveal a new chapter of adoration. So you search your mind and rattle your memory in some hope that all the cracks and dents are fixable if you just take some time to find their origin. And when you do, you plant seeds in them and pray for rain. But the rain never comes and your tears aren’t enough to bear fruit. So you have to accept it. You have to live with your differences and change the pattern of your love.
“Friends?” they say.
“Friends.” You respond.
When you become aware of the time wasted arguing with boys, you learn the value of conversing with men.