I was literally moments away from turning off the lights and curling into my fetal sleeping position. I was looking through my Facebook page, reading the posts on my wall. And then, it hit me.
Sophelia, what the fucking hell is wrong with you.
You knew this one was different. There was never a question about it. The fact that you managed to churn out six vignettes in a month, when your literary output had diminished to a near drought for almost a year. The numbers don't lie. By the time you publish this post, there will have been only 22 posts written for the year 2012. That's not even a fifth of how much you wrote in 2009. No, the last time you were able to produce so much material was because of your asinine high school infatuation with an idea. It was never about a person. You kept your life so sterilized that all you could do was to feed your erotomanic imagination into creating a person that didn't even exist in real life.
That one that I absolutely forbid you to call "You" again -- when did you ever really interact with that one? You didn't. You magnified every insignificant little word or glance tossed your way and transformed them into epics. You were so enraptured with the romanticized concept of unrequited pining that you ended up writing your own novel inside your head.
And now, let's go back to this one -- the one that has been gnawing away at your conscience for a week. Why the hell has this one tormented you so much? It's because for the first time in your pathetic life, this one was real. This one wrote to you the night you two first met. This one, while undergoing an emotionally draining period, still bothered to ask to meet with you. This one held an umbrella over you under the pouring rain. This one waited outside with you until your relatives came to meet you for dinner.
Your doubts still eat you alive. You question if you are guilty of the same egregious over-analysis that consumed you in high school. You remember that one comment: "I can talk about my life with almost anyone." It rings in your head like a gong. You are not special. You question if you are guilty of creating another fiction -- the idea of person -- inside of your head. How much do you really know about a person that you met merely two weeks ago? You are delusional.
The coward in you clung onto these doubts. Once the seed was planted, the thorny mess began to take hold. You designed a "test" to see if your doubts could be proven. When the results were what you expected, you made your grand declaration that this chapter of Sophelia's perpetually tragic life had come to an end.
Except, you ridiculous ninny, you failed the test yourself. What kind of result were you expecting from him, when you wrote with the thinly veiled implication that you expected to never see each other again? What kind of result were you expecting, when you chose not to keep the conversation alive when the ball was in your court? The truth was that you were afraid. You still are afraid.
"On risque de pleurer un peu si l'on s'est laissé apprivoiser." You've clung onto this mantra for the last six years of your life, but this is the biggest delusion of them all. The sorrow you've bottled inside of you doesn't turn into tears -- it pours out of you in vignettes.
I don't know what to do.
No comments:
Post a Comment