January 14th, 2017 – 3:00AM

It’s very much a masochist cycle of reconstructing the foundation, and then deconstructing it to mere gravel. The tint on these rose colored glasses have faded, and the vivid images, and recollections of past occurrences have been groundedly invasive.

 

The thumb on my left hand is a clear representation to that statement. I forcefully scrape my damaged nail down to the variated iris shades of the lanula – I called it the ugly figner, do you recall that? Another representation to that statement could be heard, and not seen – during the acquainted hours of the night, it’s when the inducing purge takes place. Forcefully.

This past Thursday night, I was amongst the presence of an artist who I highly respect, she’s unconventional, a woman of many perceptions, mostly genuine, and significantly heart felt; she picked up upon an emotional trigger that happened on the 24th of November, 2016.

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She said :” When you came into the bar that night, and your face was blanched due to the fact that you ran into your ex – remember how you elaborately explained how you handed him the books with the lavender, velvet bow, tied up? You had a dried rosemary within the pages. I apologize about how I reacted to that, I was quite zealous about previous relationships, and how we should forget them completely. As I was looking at you, and your doughy eyes, It felt like I was speaking to a vast non-receptive figure, because it felt like you had raw, genuine, emotions for him. You still weren’t ready to let him go, you weren’t in that state of mind to detach that person from your life, because you severely  wanted him present. You were sincere, and emotionally driven. You still are all of those things, and you feel the exact same way. It shows.”

I didn’t know how to respond, and I don’t think I could’ve, and I’d blame that on the lumps in my throat that I held very strongly. Although that, I said one thing “He was beautiful, he wanted to  fix people, yet he couldn’t fix himself.” and then down my cheeks went a couple of tears, and alike those that fell that night, they’re falling right now. As I write this. 

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I’m tired of looking at my phone in hopes that you’d talk to me, and if you did, it wouldn’t be like you used to. So monotonous, and your replies would vary, you’d either reply promptly, around the last hours of the day, or you wouldn’t at all. I’d be left with those two blue ticks. I’m aggravated as to not knowing of how to deal with your case of “لامبالاة”, do I just cut the chord? Do I stop playing the black and white keys? Do I wish you the best and depart? Or do I just lay uncomfortably, and learn how to again get accustomed to the deafening silence, in hopes that there’d be a reply to my yearnings? 

It’s an every night question, and an every day anticipation. Where should I stand, and how do I lick the envelope, and send it away with my kindest regards, and well wishes…

What, how, and why?

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