Look look! Do you want to see?
They got rid of the table next to where that big possum tree used to be
The one where there stopped being a you and me
See?
Well, maybe you don't remember
It was one of those tables with the useless umbrellas, not protecting anyone from anything. Because what good is an umbrella with holes, an old memory of you and me, or a person with no identity? What good is a dead flower if for its' bloom you never stay long enough to get to see?
Deeply breathe.
I still remember the silver top looking back at me. Hot, and discomforting to my melancholy. It was the first time I was really confronted with me. Sharp light on the deepest room and storms I kept hidden, away from any sight, including mine. For how good are we, how good can we be, when all our lives we are told what we were and ought to be? How was I ever supposed to see the real me when there was always someone in front, blocking my reflection for me to see? I never knew my true identity. I didn't even know sometimes which personality I'd choose this week. Happiness a frilly soft costume, sadness worn on days it needed repair. How was I, of all people, supposed to be aware of who this was? The girl who's own reflection in your eyes brought her the most disgust?
I feel this is a deeper problem than just one of mine. For who is really somebody if their identity is not rooted solely for the good of all mankind? What are we if not witnesses to other consciousness, witnesses of life? What are we if not a reflection of all space and time. I was always a reflection. A reflection. Never was of my own mind, but a character, a surrogate for others to see and relate to anytime they even passed me by. I was hollow. I was numb. Mimicking and mirroring others so to their hatred I would never have to succumb. A living myth! A living story! As what is good of me if not to reflect back into others what they have been mentally purposely storing? If not to be a mirror to fix them and bring them to their true glory? But with all of them out of the way, you, gone and me in disarray. There was no person, no lines, no story to navigate. Just me, a living question, a long overdue picture I'd have to paint. Of this daily I run, in sleep, in games I aggressively hide. And with each painful stroke and push deeper into myself I feel and find, I still seem To run into you, not able to free you of my mind. Maybe you are running too. Maybe running away from myself will only lead me back to you. Maybe this is our story. Maybe continuously looking into each other we find some sort of glory, and agony we don't want to see. Maybe in me, I reflect something in you you don't want to see. God what does that even mean?
Or Maybe
There is something I have yet to need to see. Some sort of twisted defining memory, or some part of myself I need to delete. But whatever it may be, I keep running into you, whilst trying to run into me. You can talk to me, or I can keep writing my poetry.
Do you want to see?
