Painting Our Stars

Chapter 1: Time's Best Friend

Entry #1

My heart aches for the enthrallment his forbidden touch brought upon my organism. His lips on my lips awakening all senses, even those I had never discovered. Those moments in which I felt alive spent alongside his presence. My awareness of the oxygen I would breathe only emerged at the sudden gasp I would take when my eyes drank the mesmerizing and addicting liquor that his being was.

"May I begin to tell my story now?" I asked. An incessant feeling of anxiousness clawing at the back of my throat. Why is it that I feel as if it is my duty to share such a disastrous life with others? Would it be wise to keep these memories engraved in my brain and my brain only? "Do as you please Mr. Davies, we have all the time in the world." said the therapist. A silent huff escaped my mouth followed by a chuckle, with no true humor behind it. "I fucking wish." was my reply. Does she actually think my time or hers for that matter is infinite? How dumb can she be? I spent most of my life denying time from having any effect on me or my loved ones. Time doesn't only heal, it destroys and breaks. I learned it the hard way. It creates an illusion in which we think beautiful moments last forever, truth be told they are always snatched from our grasp. Cruel and vicious, the only two adjectives I can associate to such concept. Why help me forget if as it transpires something will remind me again.

"I beg your pardon?" her responses are always so polite even to such vulgar statements. "It all truly starts with this book." I answered completely disregarding my previous expression. I proceeded to hold up the old copy of Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets. "A children's book?" an incredulous look set upon her wrinkly face. Who is this bitch to judge my most precious possession? I contained the words from flying out of my mouth. She doesn't seem to notice I was on the edge of an outburst. I know that if he was here he would trace his last name onto my thigh with those delicate fingers of his. They used to do wonders. 

He would tell me that one day that last name would be mine as well, we would have yet another thing in common. I still hear his voice in that one conversation we had that day at the treehouse: "Blue, how will you feel the day I make you my husband?", "Calm and content knowing I'll be yours forever.". After all these years I have finally understood what he really meant when he said, "No darling, you are and will always be mine even without a ring around your finger.". Yes indeed, so many moons have passed and many more will come without a piece of metal around my finger and still I am sure I belong to him.

My thoughts are abruptly interrupted by that nuisance of a voice, "May you elaborate on how your life story begins with an old and deteriorating copy of Harry Potter?". I don't know exactly what to say. My perspective of life might be quite different from hers. For me, life doesn't start the moment a human begins to breathe. It begins when we understand why we are breathing in the first place. Life before him can't be called life, and even now after him it still doesn't deserve that name. What is our purpose? How did a story about a giant snake and a legendary orphan offer me clarification on my existence? It wasn't the content within the pages, it was the object itself.

The book I found in the recycling bin of my apartment complex. Why was I dumpster diving? Well, I wasn't. Just happened to see the cover through a transparent bag whilst leaving my own trash. I was snapped out of my thoughts again by the harsh sound of her clearing throat. I stared at her momentarily. Am I strong enough to narrate that fateful day we stumbled upon each other? How can I do this without him? We had sworn we would tell this story together to our grandchildren. Now I must get my shit together and ramble to a therapist about the day I knew what living was. I must do it, in hopes of getting better. But will I ever get better? The words are stuck and a lump begins to form in my throat. Still my face remains expressionless and passive. 

Shall I remain silent? After all, silence has been the best of my companions. As it never neglected me. Its presence was the one thing that reminded me I wasn't alone on this earth. How? Some may ask. Simple as saying that the absence of sound caused it. Sound that once manifested around me, the living proof of those that used to surround me. His laugh was the boldest harmony that my ears had the privilege to meet. It was enough to make my conscience clash into debate on whether living was really insignificant. Now even time can't take away that wonderful melody painted into my memory or the astonishing spurt of emotions it causes still to this day. It made me want to see the colorful parts of existence. 

Being blind to the goodness on this planet wasn't as bad as you might think. He wasn't my light in the dark or any of that cheesy bullshit people make up. Even if he was I wouldn't have been able to see such light. What I do know is he was my air. The air that would wrap my being and travel through the fine hairs on my head and the fibers on my clothing. The oxygen I wouldn't have been able to appreciate if it wasn't for the mere sight of him. The current of wind that would walk beside me and guide me in the right directions. He would seep into my pores and captivate my organism, all my life functions would redirect their purpose to keeping me alive in order to relish in the wonder he was. How could I wish to perish if his existence would warm my heart enough to shelter me from any freezing temperature.