The rooms with empty beds

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The rooms with empty beds

But even then, Freud said it best, “Our beds are crowded.” Because even after one by one those beds became vacant. No matter the span of time, the past and the people in it always linger on. In echoes and phantoms, the walls come alive. The pitter patter of small children, the loud and crowded kitchen table, the arguments of teenagers, the endless conversations till morning rose, remain. It is all still there; it is all still hers.

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To all the boys I loved

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To all the boys I loved

The heart isn’t a juice box, you can’t squeeze the life out of it hoping to remove all trace. So, I think of the past often, not wanting to relive it, just trying to remember the lessons it taught me. But for now, all the boys I loved will forever remain just folders that sit in my inbox, life lived, and life passed. Because sometimes putting something where it can’t touch you is easier on the heart.

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The land of untold stories

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The land of untold stories

But there are things you never get used to even if you have all the time in the world. You don’t get used to the empty space on the other side of the bed. You’ll never get used to not seeing their smile. Or avoid buying 2 drinks in a bar, or 2 tickets for a concert. Or to avoid smelling their perfume. Or to that feeling of heartbreak every time you look in the mirror and realize that you are the biggest fool of all for letting go the love of your life.

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Dead Flowers

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Dead Flowers

So she sat in silence, the argument hardest to refute, in the dead of a torn and wretched night, screaming inside without being able to say a word. And outside, it started raining. The lightning, casting dreary shadows. The thunder, shaking her rickety bones. While HE 247 miles away, on a cloudless night, in the bustle of a carefree night, tossed his head back in careless laughter.

And that, that made all the difference…

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To heal a wound

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To heal a wound

And as awkward and uncomfortable as it all felt, there are some issues in our lives that we can’t sweep under a rug. That we cannot go around or even over, that we must cross from end to end. It’s part of the process, because as much as we want to, there are some things that we cannot assign to oblivion. Some pain demands to be felt.

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Autopilot

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Autopilot

So I peer into the image. Examining it. Hoping that the more I zoomed in the more I'd recognize who she was. That I’d see a fragment of me in her. But I wasn’t that little girl anymore. And even though I recognized the location and the context of the picture, it all seemed unsettling and foreign. Somewhere along the way I’d lost that version of myself. And the worst part was, not knowing if I was worth finding...

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