Sometimes, I regret I told 2019 that I couldn't wait to meet you. I've changed my mind in May.
If only there is a secret shortcut somewhere, I'd be sashaying my way out now, never mind passing through your grand exit doors. But then, thank you for letting me dip my toes into November, alive and kicking.
Breathing fine, despite the mask.
Back in December, I imagined myself strolling in your alleys, peek through your windows like a child who's starry-eyed with too much anticipation of the magic that you promised, hidden in your pockets. But, lo and behold it's not the kind of magic I was anticipating at all! I asked for the one with rainbows but you came with black magic fifty shades darker!
Sometimes when I am alone, the thought of looking at you in the eye makes my stomach churn itself in a manner that makes my skin crawl. You took us all by storm and you made sure you'd take the center stage looking like a million-dollar movie star, all eyes on you. In the spotlight.
You showed us who the real master of the game is and you're out to teach us lessons the hard and funny ways.
I'm sorry to say this but you're too much 2020. I'm tired of the things that came along with you. There are nights that sleep is elusive and I'm left staring into the unknown at odd hours, thinking how the rest of you is going to unfold.
But if the universe can hear the silent whispers of my heart, I'm sending a wish to the skies that all of this will end soon, in a gentler way if not beautifully.
You've been told this lie that you are born broken, incomplete, and this life is nothing but a pursuit to find pieces to make you whole, to find someone else to make you feel whole. As if being You ain't enough, that you have to go on this divine journey to find someone else to find the pieces scattered around the world to be You. It's a constant struggle, isn't it?
You stay in the dark pit with a false hope that one day, in the middle of the night, someone would magically appear out of nowhere and it'll all make sense. Every poem, every movie, every poetic bullshit will make sense in that single moment. We always had a thing for fairytales and happy endings.
You have always wondered, what does it mean to be whole? You've seen enough strangers at two in the morning who talks about stars, the way autumn falls on the streets, about how everything is so deterministic but we look for a poetic side to feel a little something, a meaning. Words are funny that way, you know. They tell this lie that you will find pieces that will make you complete in a two a.m conversation with a stranger, but you always end up leaving a little part of you in them. Does that mean, in the end you are nothing but an empty shell of someone who is scattered around in strangers that you no longer remember? Perhaps it's all contradictions, or maybe someone being complete is someone being empty. But you've seen enough strangers, to know that, sometimes some will make you feel more. That is hard to define in words with your objective brain that always looks for a reason, a why, to feel a little less of the impending existential doom.
Perhaps we are limited by these boundaries. You are made to believe this is who you are, a close arbitrary space, nothing more and nothing less. So you end up finding pieces to fill the space and throw out things when they no longer fit. Yet, it never feels complete, often it is suffocating, and often it is just emptiness. Some people are entwined in a way that makes them feel more, beyond the edges of who they are to a newfound solace. Some, last for a few hours and some a little more. But the scariest thing is not finding someone who will make us feel more or losing that someone who made us feel something, the scariest thing is not realizing that you are enough, to feel complete. And maybe, it is not about finding someone else to make you feel complete, but finding yourself at two in the morning with a fine whiskey enjoying the mid-life crisis in a lonely apartment dancing to Elvis and feeling fucking fine.
And maybe, it's these empty rooms that let you breathe.