Let me tell you a secret

Let me tell you a secret. She doesn’t want to be a writer. Her rotating fantasy multiplied with the number of years she has, in which she is 15 and lying in a hospital bed, tubes stuck in her small chest, faces of broken glass smiling at her, telling her that she will be successful and become someone adored. Cold sweat and exhausted body from weakness, thoughts pulsing. But she never knew how to breathe. She didn’t have time to learn, matured so fast, so young, but never older than then. She was 30 and something, mentally. A well-known blade that lies before her knees every time she dreams of tight walls that have crushed her youth and hollow eyes staring at her, penetrating her darkness. Let them not be themselves, because they knew how to turn their abusers into words, although she isn’t a writer to only throw those same words and turn them into pictures for others to see that she was just a girl who had a lot of bad luck. You see, you can’t experience, you can only go through monstrous pages like a stranger pitying her and sighing for something she doesn’t understand. But those pages will not cut you like that blade that once ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time and left cuts that it’s not proud of, because they’re not hers. So she tries to patch everything around her, except herself. She is only human, abusing her own words, killing reality by sharpening them.

That’s how she gets to handles what they call writing. Maybe she wanted to live an ordinary life, study foreign languages ​​and live in a yellow house by the lake, with someone who would treat her as if she’s not ordinary and know how she was doing by the color of her eyes. Someone who is going to read a lot and drink a bottle of beer with her, and prepare her mushroom sauce and roasted toast. Maybe she wanted to have a typewriter, and not use it, because why would she? An old gramophone and camera to take pictures of the lake and her dog and sing a favorite song that no one has ever heard. To have champagne and toast to her next success, proud of what made her like that. Perhaps she wanted to laugh so loud without turning that laughter into a fossil. She would drive in a car she bought herself and travel anywhere, only to be farther from her past. That dream began to break when she realized she wasn’t a doctor who would cure what she saw, when shouldn’t but a patient, trapped in a spider web of book compulsion, walking as if her feet were pads for the pins. She didn’t want that. She doesn’t want to be another easy prey to her demons, or the girl running home and terrifies herself after someone in the city told her that they loved her writing because she cherished too much of her suffering, for someone to make it ugly now. Telling her that they love something that can only numb as the worst sense of non-existence in a world where she has to breathe because she grew up when she was 7, 10, and 12.

Self-awareness is her identity. And the hardest is for those who aren’t afraid of death but of dying while they’re alive; hypothesis: One time someone asked if she ever thought about disappearing. Conclusion: She was standing with her head under the faucet, while the sink was slowly filling up with water, listening to the bizarre noises of silent prayers, people from paper, those who had never actually had the opportunity to exist. What did she use to need? Their hearts, like the red flowers in the mud, the waterfall of desire, and something that helped her swim. “It’s ungrateful to drown in shallow waters,” she often says. And they were laughing, the soft sound floating on their chapped lips, Another judgment, another bullet to digest. But she grits her teeth. The possessive part requires it: “I have to be somebody. I have to be more than this body. I don’t know how to exist without breathing depth. I’m too much of anything or absolutely nothing. A bullet or a bullet belt, a curse, or a gift to myself. I’m a god, but I don’t believe in myself. A sailor for no reason, no purpose, because it’s better without it.” She looks into the unbelievable face of metamorphosis and wonders if it was, was it meant much more to what it never was. And she never wanted anyone’s understanding. All she needed was selective amnesia. The self-control of memories, self-control of everything that threatens her freedom. Something that can swallow with pride and something to heal their wounds later. Guilt with the crown, it stood on the tip of her tongue. Teeth were squeezing her like prison bars and penetrating her lips when they wished to. She would sit down and be calm, feeling the pressure. She was collecting their bullets, but also hers, as trophies. She was moving away from anything real.

She doesn’t like people anymore, just the wounds they leave behind. “I think I’m becoming more violent towards myself,” she said a few years ago, as she stood smiling, comparing her scars to other people in school corridors, and those who knew she could read them were trembling in fear and ecstasy. At the thought of breaking apart, she invented herself, created all versions of herself, except the real ones, but approximately to feel as if she loved what she was becoming. Her skin became a topographic map of wars that no one recorded in history. Her anxious fingers approached the bodies she forgot as soon as she began to decipher herself. A paralyzed look at the next target. Unconsciously, she knew everything. Where will the next blow occur, hurting her? Who will be there at the wrong time to welcome her aggression? The hysterical laugh every time promised that there wasn’t going to be next time. Or that it might not be so terrible until one day it wasn’t, until one day the deadness took over her way of thinking, her life, leaving room only for something that will, at some point, make her worthy, but she will not appreciate always. Something that restores her confidence, but she doesn’t need it. Sometimes the same dream comes through her eyelashes, reminding her that she is from flesh and blood. And she looks at what she has, so she remembers to try to keep it. This time. The next one is questionable. Self-sufficiency knows to interfere when not invited. And then she listens to the kid in herself who was never a kid, but then again, when could it be? Her tea becomes salty with tears, and her hands tremble, but she continues to write, continuing to push those words like stillborn fetuses, despite the voices that say “Don’t.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may also like these