Someone Else

There are stories… I know I wrote them. I know they happened to me a year ago… But it’s strange, it’s like they belong to someone else. I glance at a text, I read the words, I know it was all real, but somehow it feels as if there is a screen inside my mind dividing these memories from mine. I read the words, images rise, flashes, and for a second there is something akin to recognition that takes place… but I’m not the same person, and if I feel things, they somehow don’t feel the same.

They’re my stories. Or are they? The words read: “you’re not as subtle as you think you are”, which is something I  can keenly remember saying; you were standing right there, I can see your facial expression, I could almost extend my hand towards you… The “you’re an enigma wrapped in a contradiction” which seemed so much more profound then, well it sounds like a line now… Which it was. But no blame passing… Mine were too. They were all lines; lines with words and… God, do these words mean anything at all in the end?

They dance across the page; verbs, nouns and adjectives, riddles and resolutions… Words – pretty words- but just words.

It’s uncanny this sentiment- to feel that you have aged- and yet, you don’t feel wiser or better, just more weathered. I wonder why we all seek for wisdom… Wisdom is just a more pleasing word than ‘prudence’ or ‘experience’ or ‘worn’ or ‘creased’. I know you were saying that you’d rather know everything, have the whole world fill you, have it all… But I… I sometimes think it’s better not to know. I think that sometimes it’s better to allow for some things to be unknown (yeah I know, contradictory as always. I guess I really am a conundrum. I don’t do it on purpose).

Oh but words, words… With these words, don’t you get it, bliss sometimes turns to an undefinable ache, and you can’t wash it away with soap or whiskey, and eloquence becomes a thing of the past… I realize, this unattainable ideal has somehow lost its appeal. Here I have learned that words, unlike what I thought, well, they don’t anchor things down, not even me; they’re evanescent really. What do you want to do with words that lose their meaning, their feeling, their colours? Our words used to make the world colourful, and now they lost their edge; they’re dull and gray- and it’s funny since gray used to be so much more sharp back when we used it.

The reality is nothing stays, everything changes… It’s strange, but even memories don’t remain the same. Now it feels as if it could all belong to someone else.

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