The Ways Of Escapism

Part 1: Elio's Memoires

-Part 1: Elio's Memoires

Play us something in the piano

"Elio!"

I hear shouting my name. I stopped what i've been endeavouring to do and i had noted the page on which I had lingered on the whole evening with the bookmark so as not to lose track of the number.
I couldn't fathom out the first paragraph,

I was au courant that the answer was less painless than what I was trying to unravel,
I knew I was looking for something else in those words so I refused to assimilate its actual, straightforward meaning.
It was something that became a wonted habit after five years,
I always thought there was more to it, more to everything,
an ulterior motive, a double edged sword, a hidden facade, but because half didn't complete me or didn't convince me, I'd always look for the whole gist.

Right now and then, i was and am nothing but a half,
as fractional as that paragraph, perhaps, that's the reason it started to gnaw me so much in the last few years.

But of which was in the past, never really was i able to get past to it, no matter what or whatnot.
Mayhaps, that's what really makes me feel uncompleted, maybe I became half of me the instant I thought I wouldn't be able to get over it, or the instant he left, I couldn't tell.

"...Get over it?"

"Je me rends."

I closed the book, which i started few hours ago.
"The Storyteller" by Jodi Picoult, the paragon of moral Dilemma, the first words of a paragraph;

"There are all sorts of losses people suffer,
from the small to the large.
You can lose your keys, your glasses, your virginity.
You can lose your head, you can lose your heart, you can lose your mind.
You can relinquish your home to move into assisted living, or have a child move overseas, or see a spouse vanish into dementia.
Loss is more than just death, and grief is the gray shape-shifter of emotion."

He would have told me the meaning of it, as well as my father would have.

But right now, I wouldn't tell.
I wouldn't tell because I was familiar with it, or because I used to be?

I was obstinate, too stubborn, but I think I already knew its meaning.
Of course I did, I spent these five years experiencing that, having that under my skin to lurk in every corner and turn.

And to not accept that, would be defying the truth itself, in the spite of the odds of successfully convincing myself otherwise, because if my thoughts are against it, my heart's will recognizes the pain as well as the happiness, as well as him, together with all his little things and the stuff he could do to me, still present in my life or away, nothing had changed since he left;

But because I knew so well, it was easier to neglect and forget.
Especially when left there's only my pain and memories of us, but what's  the point when there's me and no him, the same would be if there was no me and him now?

I'm struggling, even if hanging never crossed my mind, it didn't seem a bad idea after all.

If I thought death as peace, it would be less disheartening and feel more justified to commit the act,
but i'd be lying to myself, you would, people would, because it was a great escape for the perfect crime,
and to die while lying to myself was an even worse outlook.