The night is a mistress of life. It is the hardest time to be alive for, those silent hours bring forth Melancholic air and scandalous actions. In its prime it feeds off of the secrets, schemes and lies made within it, knowing it was only a matter o...
"You are at once both quiet and the confusion of my heart." - Franz Kafka
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There's something that's been troubling me for the past two weeks and I cannot yet pinpoint what it is.
That's a lie.
It's been difficult to tell what parts are real from what parts are imagined. Since I discovered the truth about my father and the blocked moments of my childhood, my past haunts me differently now: following me everywhere I go, whispering truths.
And although my childhood seems far away, faded and hollow, blurred and bittersweet, things stick out like knives, sharp edges drawing blood. Because I remember the neglect and loneliness, I can remember the feeling of that empty space between my ribs, wishing for warmth and affection.
And If I could ever find the words... and then find the courage, perhaps I'd seek out answers.
Why did I have to beg for your love? Why wasn't I good enough unless I ran until my bones ached, skin bruised, limbs sore and belly flat? Why was heat damage better than unruly curls? Why would you make me into this volatile, self-reliant and untrusting, stone-cold, withdrawn and pragmatic person?
Why did you force me to choose between saving myself and loving you?
You see it's weird when someone is no longer in your life after so long. Especially for me.
It's like I exist on the edge, near extremities, never the middle.
I can feel something all at once or be completely unaffected by it. I can be obsessively haunted by my thoughts or I can trap them inside of a box, stored in a dark corner to be forgotten about. I never understood why it happened like this; now I believe it is an attribute gained from being a part of project gemini.
And as of late, the deepest parts of me have been searching and searching for something, anything, to cling on to for a chance of reconciliation in the unforeseeable future. But I come up short every time because no matter how terrible, how heavy, I've realized and accepted that I don't feel anything for my mother anymore.
These thoughts, these symptoms, if they were ever voiced I am certain psychologists would have plenty to say about it.
And to be honest, I'm not in the mood for those shenanigans.
"Raven," Dr. Kumar's voice snapped my attention towards her. Dressed in a black pencil skirt and blue blouse, her sun-kissed skin had a natural glow, oval-shaped face frames by reading glasses and mousy brown waves. "You've seemed to zone out, shall I repeat myself?"
