The balcony in spring.

15Oct08

It is always like this.

I am weird and I am awkward and I strangle you, socially, metaphorically and almost literally. At first I think it’s just you, and then I think it must be me, and then I think that it’s definitely you.

There’s no hiding the fact that I am not the favourite person on your list. Which is, frankly, just another way of saying that you hate me.

It’s clear. It’s clear as day and almost as misleading, and there aren’t many places I can run. I seem oblivious and maybe I am, but not for long. Walls have cracks and faces as thick as mine definitely do. And my one crack is almost nauseatingly so – I just want you to like me.

So when the crack widens enough for sunlight and embarrassment to seep in in all its painfully cold state, I hide. I look for places, physical and mental for me to escape to. I used to wallow in sympathy, but nowadays I just find an empty tree. Wide open spaces that give me the illusion of existing alone, which is, at times like these, preferable.

Because if I don’t hide, the crack gets the better of me and I run and I flee and I fall on my knees and the next thing you know is I’ve committed murder of the first degree. Or I’ve snapped at someone I actually love and there are few things that gnaw at my heart like the look of a pair of hurt and clueless eyes. Or the mumblings of a person who struggles to understand, but cannot know that all I want is a tree and wide open spaces.

There are balms for the madness though. Like the full moon, which distracts with its shiny pallour and of how it lights up the world in a way the sun cannot, which is funny because it’s only a reflection of the sun. Verses read soothingly, achingly, reminiscent of the self when it wasn’t so far below in the reaches of the heavens. Kindred hearts who whisper comfort and love, better than the one I never knew.

And these balms work their magic. Or rather, time does. Time lets it fade away like dust and specks of empty spores of regret. The balms soothe and nurture as they ought to. But time perfects the memory, or lack of, and soon, too soon, all is well again.

One day, when time and distance deem it well enough to test the cracks that have tempered their way into nothing, someone will mention my name. And you, who so willingly tried to forget it, will have a ridiculous, almost fond remembrance of me and you will say, ‘Oh, her. Yes. Nice girl. A little silly, but harmless. Such a long time ago.’ And you’ll smile, wistful, smarting.

It’s amusing how time and distance heals cracks and curses.

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