‘Why do I write?’ you ask me, your voice tainted with unmasked annoyance. I do not know what I’ve done this time, only that whatever I do will never be enough, no, not for you.
If I were being truthful to myself, I would admit that you are not what I imagined you would be from the light. But then again, truthfulness is yet another trait that annoys you to no extent, which puts a stop to that rather disappointing revelation.
I feel the weight of your stare on my face and look up to stare into your eyes. Crystal-blue on good days, they remind me of those interminable skies stretching far above me.
I am lost in them, in the heady memories of the past, of an alternative future, of unexplored possibilities, of those unfulfilled hopes and dreams.
The skies turn a bruised blue, and I snap back to the present.
Your gaze burns with disgust. If you were being honest with yourself, you would admit that I wasn’t what you thought I would be either. But it is too late, for both of us.
You shake your head in blatant annoyance and storm away, and I still don’t know what I’ve done. But this time, I barely notice. You will be back in a few hours, I know, with lipstick on your collar and a smirk on your lips. But I am too lost in my head to care.
The question swims around in my hand as my hand falters on the page.
Why do I write? Why do I write knowing that the world may not have enough space to squeeze in yet another unfulfilled dream? Why do I write knowing that I’ll probably never be good enough, I’ll never rise up to the standards set by those better than me?
I want to tell you that I write for you, my voice a lingering caress on your skin. I know it would please you, at least for the next few days. But no, that would be a lie. I write for myself? How selfish, you would say, disgust rolling off you.
I write to tell my story, to immortalize my hopes, my dreams, to leave behind a legacy, something to remember me by when I am no longer here. Each word a footprint on the sand, a scratch on the rocks, a trail left behind that will lead the world to my grave.
My pen flies across the page, deep blue ink scrawled on creamy white. It is over this ink that I come alive, against the scratch of the rough paper beneath my hand.
But you do not understand. You never do. You look at me as if I’ve gone mad and tell me that I am wasting my time. I think to myself that maybe you are right. When you walk away, I feel tears burn at the back of eyes.
In the silence of the darkness, I let them fall.