Prose

I run after my life, whether towards it or away from it, I don’t stop

Everything is in the trembling of the lower lip, the dry dumpling that makes a hole in the throat, the bitterness surfaces no matter how hard you press your tongue against the tips of your lips. That’s how you always know that you hit the wall of the familiar place, where turning around and turning back isn’t permitted. There’s no redemption in waiting, and unsteady legs fall into live sand of unyielding. Did you think it couldn’t happen more than once? You’ve been chewed up by the ground a thousand times before. You tell yourself to hold on tight, one more round, to lean on the impact and hope that the earth will just chew you up and spit you out again, not swallow you whole. I no longer have the self-confidence to wholeheartedly agree. I’m only left with a small part of conscious idealization, and perhaps that’s enough to tell myself I need to breathe, focus and hold on to this life while it takes me on another ride. I’m on my knees, but I stand tall, what an irony. I whisper to my regret to let me go, hoping it listens, again. My prejudices are now depending on it, and I often tell myself: “I know the sky isn’t empty because I felt it fall and it was damn heavy. Someone, please show me what makes it heavy before it falls again.” I don’t know. I may not be hitting the same wall again, but I have one last cry and I will make it worthy. Every time I move back a little further, the remorse pulls me back with some subtle move, knowing it will not pass unnoticed. Every time I leave, it finds a way to find me only to haunt me with everything I try to forget so hard. I’m trying. I was trying. Every time I seal the cracks of my mind with my healing, there appears remorse, hitting them harder than before. Why? Mistakes are the part of regret, but repentance cannot let go of the voice, tied in a knot of motionless imitation of life. Those same mistakes told me it didn’t have to be this way after they made it be. They said they wished it never happened. Or was it me? They said anything only to keep me in their grasp and then everything to lose me. It seems that people can be mistakes and vice versa. What mistakes are mine? Did I let people go, or did I allow them to let me go, being wrong and right? Who knows.

All I know is that people, these figures of flesh and bones, exposed to me every wrong feeling I had, but I looked at them as if they represented honesty. And then, through ridicule, they said there wasn’t guilt, but still blaming me for things that never happened. I let it go a long time ago, ignoring the drama others brought on me, taking the punches of those who shouldn’t even have hands when they aren’t using them well, to ground themselves when they’re wrong, too, not just others. I’m still here, inside my version of hell, wondering if somehow I fell on my head, and ended up lying here with my demons who I know very well. But there’s remorse, still banging on the door, reaching inside my cracks, allowing my spirit to enter, but I don’t want that. I’m already a ghost. The disappointments left me at the lowest point of gravity, a universal cliché. That’s the moment I knew best. And, yes, it still burns, as they’re using the whip on my back they once relied on, and always will. But that doesn’t mean I need an answer or anything. The way my mistakes or people made this regret is all I ever needed to know. So, once again, I speak to the guilt that’s not mine but pinned on my wrists more than I thought, and I tell it to erase everything if that’s what needs to be done. Nothing can hurt me more than my idealization, nothing. I run after my life, whether towards it or away from it, I don’t stop. Chasing it, or it’s chasing me. Sometimes it’s an echo, perhaps from my chest from where my heart is trying to escape, or maybe it’s because of the way my feet hit the pavement loudly, running away from myself, somewhere far away. I look for the signs near the path to self-discovery, what it wants to show me. Maybe I’ve lost most of the time, but at least I’m not just standing. Does that mean something good? I don’t always remember the path I engraved my name on, but I’m sure I leave marks everywhere I go. I guess they will mean something. I’ve been there, I’m here now, but I’ll always be in between. I swallowed the compass, read the heartbeat. I listen carefully, and it’s okay if it takes me far. Sometimes the farthest way we walk by, wearing a blindfold, teaches us much more than following it with eyes wide open.

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