There’s A Kiss…
“I hate to tell you but I could do no better and I” is a note to my younger self, sort of saying there’s no easy way to tell you this but I feel I have too, that you will feel pain and all of those things but it’s all just part of it, that you’ll endure and you’ll learn from it.
~~Celeste
In the art of living, experiences safe to say, is what shapes our genuine opinions. It doesn’t matter how many classes the lecturer missed, he’ll still send you materials and set exams on courses he never once stepped into the hall to actually teach. Some persons will carryover, others will pass with flying colors. We’ll never know what happened to who and how much they paid, but the victor is the victor and those with raw experience will tell you, “in this life, just have money and connections” is that a testament to their success, or is it a cry for help?
I find myself feeling like I need help more often than not these days. Ever since I let out “daddy’s” story, I haven’t felt the need to write anything. I figured maybe that’s why I had so much to say in the first place. I had told my most secret pain and one of my most scary memories, if not the worst. I rested in the idea that I was free of the melancholy that accompany writing, since words were no longer easy to assess and put together in my head. My thoughts became so scattered, I wondered if this was how it felt to be normal. So many thoughts and never a decision.
“I love you” became my favorite sentence. Almost as if it healed me every time I said it. But come to think of it, that would also mean that I was broken multiple times. I found religion, I found faith, I found will, I almost found love, but never silence nor peace. All these experiences yet, I wrote nothing.
I lived like a “normal” person would. Go through my day saying “God abeg” at intervals, end it with the shortest most powerful monologue, “God thank you” because truly, I feel blessed. So where was all this noise really coming from?
Just two weeks ago, I remembered what my most scary memory was. I say “was” because until two weeks ago, I didn’t believe it was still a plague. My plague so to speak. A fear of the unknown. I’d affirmed so many positive thoughts and did so much mental work to finally put me at a point where I no longer imagined the worst possible outcome, still, it took one silly experience for my scariest memories to come flooding back.
“I fear that I’ll never be loved or loved rightly enough.
I fear that no matter what I do or how I am, no one will see me.
I fear that I’ll end up like my father. Absconded or dead, who knows?
I fear that because he didn’t stay, no one ever will.
I fear that my judgement or love isn’t based on availability.
I fear the thought of having kids because I fear, I don’t want them.”
~~Ru Samson
In one of the greatest love story of all time, a girl fakes her death to avoid marrying a man she couldn’t love. How could she? She was already madly in love with another. When her lover found out she’d died, he quickly poisoned himself because what was there to live for?
“Here's to my love. O true apothecary, thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss, I die.”
She woke up defeated and stabbed herself.
This was what came to mind as I stood facing my reflection after my old scary memories arose from their fake death, almost taking shape in my current reality.
Do I love myself?
Is it true or do I just need to feel like it is?
If I can’t love me, why do I expect you to?
