Summer approached with its familiar touch; it approached the way a cancer does: suffocatingly, stickily, full of hopelessness and disgust and fear-
silently: you don’t really know it’s there until temperature starts rising; until something inside of you starts aching. Until it has spread around injecting a toxic liquid in your blood, making it hard to breathe.
And just like you do with cancer, it seems as if you have been cursed to deal with the feeling of powerlessness, having to witness it all behind an unbreakable, unscratchable glass, hoping there will be something left of you when it ends.
Along with summer, so did walk in the scene the thought of death. How it is that with the birth of summer starts the death of pretty much everything I have built on these last years, or year. Relationships, hope; myself; this season, the saddest of them all, extermines a part of me with its arrival. And I am afraid it murders bigger, more important parts of me with every year passing by.
I slightly foreshadow a lonely summer.
I remember thinking and quoting one of my favorite books on my mind on my everyday, 9-hours walk: ‘’If no one in the entire world cares for you at all, do you even exist?’’I felt like a ghost, about to disappear. My day would have gone by in complete silence if it wasn’t for the depressing music on my earphones. I stopped talking at the dinner table; and the rest of the day I ran away in the first hours of morning. I just started a small talk with the girl that helps out at home or with my 8-year-old sister to tell her something dull from time to time. I wrapped myself with History pages about queens and emperors and their loneliness, so I would forget about my own.
I was doomed to be stucked in my own skin; things happened around me as I stood in the eye of a tornado I wasn’t able to stop; always looking for some air at the top of a bridge, observing the human life and feeling strangely, a part of it. Always looking.
I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat. I lost five pounds, what made me even paler, even skinnier. I learnt to love the way both of these two bones at the sides of my waist got stabbed sharply on my skin. But how wouldn’t I? My mom’s friends, they all said skinny looked good on me. I’ve grown familiar with a body that wasn’t mine, with the unrecognizable figure that the mirror reflected. I remember not being able to detect whether it was a flood or a drought; not wanting to cry cause if I did, I feared I wouldn’t be able to stop. At the same time though, I feared not having any water left solved in a blood that might also have drought away; a blood too thick, too pure for such delicate tissues.
Maybe now I was that gray city I hate. Shallow and numb and dry, with only a few people living there, they all threatening with packing away their stuff and leave.
Not my dad, not my family, no one noticed how decaying I was. How anxiously depressed I was. My mom did, but she wasn’t really there.
She never was really there.
I say I’m used to being alone and that I do not need anybody anymore, but then I find myself remembering those nights laying on my annoyingly humid bed, looking at the ceiling and the glowing plastic stars, and feeling so alone I thought I might go insane.
I don’t think most of you reading this know that kind of loneliness. I hope most of you never know that kind of loneliness.
It can drive a person crazy. Having so many things to say, but no one to say them to.
I am not used to being alone, actually. I’ve always had someone with me inside my bubble. But I am used to dealing with things alone, and that’s what made me lonely I guess.
These people inside my bubble have always been good listeners though,
does that made me less of a loner?
But I keep taking their pictures off my wall and putting them inside a box labelled ''Sad Memories Box: DO NOT OPEN''.
Eventually, it all ends,
it all dies.
They all leave.