Bojji

I don’t buy into the healing properties of writing. After all, no utterances have never soothed my pain. The words that remain too often have the opposite effect - like a pernicious fire that turns things to ash without cauterizing the wound. Yet spewing nonsensical subjectivity has always been the only way I know how to catharsize, as made up as it reads. The only chance I get to give my woes a distinctive shape so I can visualize what I am afflicted with, to try and understand what is causing the autophagy. What’s the diagnosis doctor?  It does not help solve it, there’s no cure, no remedy. But it helps come to terms with all the ugliness inside.

It’s therapeutic verbal acrobatics is what it is.

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I shouldn’t be missing you while you’re still here.

The arrow of time is all fucked up. The timeline is all tangled up. And I can’t live in the moment. 

Because the moment hurts too much. I am conflicted between hanging onto our past as tight as I can, wrapping that security blanket around me to protect me from the bitter truths and harsh realities, deafening me to those memorical soundbites that I can’t shrug off - How could I? When you get stabbed you’re not supposed to pull the knife out 

Lest you bleed out - 

And looking ahead to a foggy, murky horizon that looks as unwelcoming as the mess in my head. You’re here but you’re really not. I’m here

But I no longer feel like I am.

There is such a thing as overfeeling. As wearing your heart on your sleeve not by choice, but out of necessity. I am not cut out for this, and neither is it. 

What am I but a kaleidoscope of my past mistakes?

I don’t consistently see the glass as fully empty for the masochistic arousal of self-pity. It’s because I can’t do otherwise. My crippling fear of abandonment, covert social inadequacy, and inability to put a leash on my feelings make it impossible for me to entertain hope. 

It would quite literally kill me.

I don’t know how to express love the way I am supposed to. It inflates like I’m high on helium, too quick and too big, to the point that it slips out of control before I even realize it. Maybe my love suffocated you, or maybe it stifled my growth. Maybe it got so big it flew away before I could give it to you properly. Or maybe it blew up in your face without your asking. At the end of the day

I don’t think I’ve loved you right. 

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There is this game, called Passage, that lets you simply walk through life for a handful of minutes, from the moment you take your first breath to the moment you die. It is one of the most straightforward, unadulterated piece of existence one could experience and presents you with one singular choice: do you want to go through all this pointless, morbid irony alone, opening more paths for yourself in a maze of identical possibilities - or would you rather have someone by your side to hold your hand, no matter the struggles, no matter the closed doors or slow pace. 

A few years ago, when I first played that life a few times, I would consistently pick the easier option and explore as much as I could. After all, why shackle yourself to a lesser future?

I don’t think I quite got the point back then.

There is no satisfaction to be found in an experience devoid of challenges. Easy does not, actually, does it. It has been difficult, it has been challenging, it has been fragilized so many times I have forgotten half the times we should have shattered. And yet that’s exactly why it has been rewarding, why it has led to so much joy, what has made us grow.

Together.

You can’t truly know the other without staring at the swamp of ugliness within, and accept that it is part of the background. There is no understanding without temporary disconnection, because it’s impossible to fix what does not appear to be broke. There is no love without flaws. 

We have survived each other as much as we have life’s curveballs. 

That’s why I really wish I could have gone through Passage with you a little longer.