Speak by Maha Al Mazrou

Posted on April 27, 2013 by

3


I have always wanted to fall in love with something concrete, with something tangible. I am in love with the two “yous” of you. I have you in reality, and then I meet you again in my mind, and I find it pretty impossible to define what you mean to me because I honestly do not know who you really are.

I hold dear the moments we share, not because I have my name inscribed on them, but because they mold and color my life like no other, that I can’t help but to kind of label them as mine, despite the bitter fact that you never see them as yours. I try so hard to describe what you are to me but I miserably fail. I just cannot help but to think that you exist because my mind believes you do.

 

I am thoroughly mystified whether I like you for you or whether I only like the fantasy version of you. Don’t you find it pathetic yet very amusing how my attraction towards you involuntarily empowers me to create a whole universe inside of my head and compose scenarios of us and only us? Don’t you find it amusing how I can make sketches of your unmistakable silhouette in minute detail and fill it with colors of absolute perfection? Don’t you think it’s creative how I can compose poems about you that resonate with genuine emotions and fall head over heels in love with them?

 

Nothing can affect me the way you do because you have gotten the face I would proudly call home. Sometimes I get that urgent need to approach you, but I wake up to the reality where instead of holding you, my hands pass through you like a phantom, while you stand there with your disarming smile that hides behind it a life without me, you stand there oblivious to all of the scenarios that ring true in my mind.

 

To me, you are the shelter where I find my lee. To me, you are the rope I tightly cling on to keep me from falling into the oblivion. I would gladly go through the heartache of living for your fantasy than to lose you completely.

 

But there you are standing there, watching me crumbling to the floor in anguish, shrugging your shoulders and telling me that there is nothing you can do, causing the other version of “me” to arise for the first time. My other “me” is horrified of the thought that one day I’ll end up sitting in my rocking chair with wrinkles all over my face and realizing that the world I experienced growing up is only stories of my imagination, only memories of some life I thought I had, then I lost.

 

The other version of “me” is laying words I will now speak to you.

“As much as I hate knowing more, knowing less terrifies me even more, and I refuse to writhe and suffer a world you trap me in to mock me.”

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