The Desperate
Every day I count the moments when my passion arises like a wave. It comes and goes beyond my calling. I can ignore it or embrace it, it never stops constructing me. It's funny how all our identity is just a puzzle of what others think of us. Little details we fill in our personality to suit their needs, their demands of us. When they leave those gestures to replay themselves to exhaustion like a sacred ritual to call our destiny .. to call it back… to bring our purpose of gestures back. After a while the memory fades and we become the lesser of who we were before the parting, the same person and yet less of what we could be, unachieved, uncompleted… useless. And my gestures fall apart along with arms and hands which once expressed this passion, because he has left my identity and there is nothing to cling on my heart upon.
The memories of my birth are so fake and faded. All about words from other people's mouth. I envy Alia for knowing all that she is and how she became who she is, for knowing, for manipulating for being so able to be consciounsly her. Much like Jessica, but in a more seductive way, the way of those who remember.. everything. I am sure I have forgotten so much; my life is less than half my own because I remember such few things and I am sure of even fewer. Once Alia used to talk to me and answer all my questions, though I do not remember these conversations it is in my brain the conviction that we had them. I can remember the places and the flavor of the coffee we had and how the light came in and all those little details. She now looks through me as if I did not exist a look only aimed to pierce my heart since it reminds me so much of how he looks at me with those which even though they are no longer so, I see them as green.
With every day I feel remote from them all, and even though this had become an accustomed situation I feel on the back of my neck the knowing thrill that this is a new situation dedicated entirely to the new… me. When have I changed? Have I? Have they? The impossibility of finding out freezes my life away.
And yet with every day that my identity is being engraved into this new raw material, I feel more and more swept away to a reality that my skin, my brain, my hands, my feet know as true. A universe I no longer know how I remember. It now seems so false and feels so true.
If I dare recall it all then there is this one night. A couple of weeks ago I suppose. That feeling of acute reality when we dream. Is this how their prophecies feel like? I was coming out of a dark wet red place I knew was not my mother. I was nothing and around me were beings that I knew were not people but were all my keen. I felt alone in their universe and I knew that they would mould me into something they needed. There was nothing I could do to resist that. Before I knew, I embraced their new form and I felt rejoiced into my new self. But I woke and felt ashamed and scared of whom I was and there was none around me anymore to bring me back at who I wanted to be.
And so my gestures started to fade.
But the passion remains. It's not in me, it's outside of me in the way he talks, even the way looks at me as if trying not to see me (what is he trying to see), or how he avoids addressing to me, or how he sometimes studies me with those dark blue eyes so electric and deep that I wonder – have I done something wrong and he awaits for me to undo it? I would change it, I would everything, I would change myself into a new shell, only if he could to the sense of seeing me, the way I want to be seen, the way I know I have been seen.
This new thought makes me feel a thrill like panic inside me. It is scary how determined this desire to change is and how easy I feel it is, simply because I know that our life is nothing but a wind carrying our passion. And mine is to be seen, to me, to change to be seen, to change to be touched, only by him, only for him.
I think I got it all wrong. It's not every other people that make us who we are, it's some people that cringe to our molding forms like birds of prey. And then we are trapped inside this new dream formed in our brains and everything we are just disappears, and then we change… and then we are seen…
Maybe forgiving is a way a change. Like leaving the past away and forgetting who we were. I want to forgive, I want to forgive everyone for my pain, for this passion they leave to devour me from within until I am left as ashes. Maybe this way the memories will fade I will become something new, something formless in its beauty to express freedom, to embrace love, to express love… to feel love, to receive love.
I will forget everyone and then they will be able to enter my life in a new way, in complete joy, after they had awaited me, and then when we embrace it all we will all be able to be the best of who we are.
I only want to be left to be the woman I remember being. To forget that moment that – in all honesty it might have been a dream, I cannot be sure – when he looked at me as if he saw me and then said to me, denying everything that I thought I might have seen in those eyes I knew as green, "I know who you are. You are not her."