Soliloquies to the Self

I live life in cycles

I'm up then I'm down

I am a spoke on a wheel

At the bottom of a hill

Creeping too slowly

On a rocky terrain too steep

For me to push myself off of the ground.

You tend to run.

That's the first thing I learnt about you. The real you. The person not personified by the persona.

You hide.

In silence, in smoke, in sex. When the world hurts, you make sure you don't. Even if it means everyone else will.

I've always been a fighter. I push. I can't ignore, I address. I don't play defence, I tackle the opposition. You love to say we're exactly the same. So I fought you.

I think we both knew we were a game. It was a fun one. It kept us close enough for comfort yet far enough for security. I used your weakness against you. My tactic: pull, then run. I relished in playing the player. I like to win.

But something made it different that time.

Something made me come to you. Something drew me each step closer and repelled each opportunity to stop and turn away. Something pulled me and ran.

Why did you look at me like that?

You knew I'd charge after you.

You knew your eyes would blind mine to the unresolved repercussions that would come with daylight and sobriety. You knew your extended silence would only amplify my still unanswered questions. You knew if you ran, I'd chase after you.

We still haven't spoken. You still haven't stopped. I still haven't caught you.

I guess you beat me at my own game.

You won the second I said, "Fuck it, I'll run away with you tonight."

It was always the same fight. We were messy throughout. So much so that after it ended I could no longer recollect anything but the ugly. We were always unhappy, I was always crying, you were always emotionally unavailable. I was thunder, you were lightning and the sun never came to break apart our angry clouds constantly colliding against one another.

But sometimes the rain doesn't pour, and I'm forced to acknowledge the quiet.

It was after the first of the bigger fights, at least, the first to last that long. We wasted away the whole night trying to rectify the problem that we still did not yet know was non-rectifiable.

It was an indication - albeit one I had yet to notice at the time. The way I always leaned in more towards you and you would try to turn away. The fact that you only wrapped your arm around me if I put my head on your shoulder first. But at the time, you would still ask if I was okay. You would still care.

I think it was the first time the prospect of our futility incepted itself into my mind. Yet the nugget of uncertainty was so small, I did not consciously detect it, or perhaps I simply chose not to identify it.

I stopped talking. You didn't start.

Amazing how all the words exchanged between our successive fights and attempts at consolation never amounted to the muted message that fifteen minutes of comfortable silence could impart on me. Amidst the feel of the cool breeze and sounds of soft taps of water against a tin roof and the headlights blurring in and out of the lonely dark road that encompassed our field of vision, lay the apex of you and me.

The calm before the storm. The pinnacle before the edge. The sharp intake of breath before an anticipated jump scare. The momentary weightlessness before the rollercoaster drops.

Fifteen minutes of your warm neck against my tear stained cheek. Your slender fingers encased around my trembling hand. Your soft breathing against my ear. The rhythm of raindrops against the pavement ticking the seconds away from our eventual downfall.

I broke the silence.

"I don't need any validation", I said, truthfully.
"Hold on to that feeling", you told me.

Then we broke apart.

I'm an open book because I choose to be. Think reservoir versus open ocean.

If the prospect of that does not worry or unnerve you, then perhaps you need to re-evaluate everything you perceive to know about me.

My confident speech and grandiose actions; she's a girl secure in her own skin.
My unabated thoughts casually overflowing into everyday conversation; she's got nothing to hide.
My quick-fire rapid retorts in response; she doesn't hurt easily.

The meticulousness of every careful construction of idea into prose veiled by her easygoing depth. Throw in a "like" or "kinda" or "whatever". It kinda helps make it, like, you're not trying or whatever.

It takes a hell of a lot of effort to appear so effortless. Life's a grand stage, and I conduct the orchestration of my choice symphony for each night's audience.

But it takes a lot to give so much. The gracious outpouring offered has its limits. Tear my pages, and the book will trap your fingers between its heavy covers. When the dam goes up, not a drop need be relinquished.

The drought is indefinite.