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Looking back, I think of everything that’s brought me here, everything that has led me to this very exact moment.
My life flashes before me in multiples, like paparazzi flashes capturing the moments of which I never really intended or longed to remember. Moments of which I grieve and cry for, knowing that I can never take them back, nor experience them ever again. All I really have are these memories now, and we all know that memories can only be stored in one place.
In my mind, I always imagined that music and writing would be my all-access pass to the world. I simplcouldn't’t picture myself without it, and I became convinced that I was a natural VIP, or a (self-proclaimed) Very Important Person. Like a fish that’s naturally habituated in saltwater, the arts were a habitat of its own that I couldn’t survive leaving from. I could never breathe in freshwater like other fish. There was ever only one oxygen to me.
This was it, until I met a boy.
Words flew in and out of my head on some days, spilling on the ground to be stepped on and never making it to paper. For a very long time, I was sure that I would never write again.
I drowned myself in memories and longing, in foul water that wasn’t natural nor healthy, drowning in reminiscence and regret but gasping to rise above the tide and breathe again, speak again. After all, I am not a fish, but I am a human being.
I am half drowning, half breathing still, but the critical time has come in determining whether I will sink or swim, whether I will let myself die, or be saved from a miracle.
Now, imagine that our hearts were actually made of glass, kind of like a treasured ashtray from France, or some tribal vase that your mom loves, or some figure that serves as both an ashtray and a vase. We fill this hollow piece of glass with cigarettes and hate, beautiful flowers and love. All within a moment, there’s the possibility that you can drop it on the floor with your hands, on your feet. And it happens. And you can barely walk. Everything disgusting and beautiful and incredibly indescribable is gone and it’s all your fault. You broke it yourself.
I let myself down time and time again. I failed to change, I wanted to, though I guess I tried. I lied to myself. I cheated on myself, betraying what I firmly love and believe in because of spurs of the moment, mistakes that stemmed from impulsive desires.
I’ve pretended to be someone else to fool the girl in the mirror into thinking that she was someone she never was. I lied every day, ever ymorning and every night. I never changed. I never grew. And I woke one day. And I looked around. And I realized that all I had was this little b****, this lying c***, and I’d never ever be able to get rid of her. I broke.
Now, imagine someone, a special friend, trying to take the glass splinters out of your feet, with undying hope that your bruises will heal eventually and you’ll be able to walk again. You’ll be able to dance again without the fear of falling while leaping, and swim without the fear of drowning while diving.
This person has devoted both of his hands and all of his fingers and all of his strength to get every little piece out, but each piece of broken glass stabs deeper and deeper and you just can’t help it. The hope wears thin and we’re both starting to think neither of us are ever going to win.
Except our hearts aren’t made out of glass, nor gold or stone. We are as strong and as valuable as we believe ourselves to be. The pieces were never really broken in the first place. It was all just fabrication of a hopeless tragedy in itself, allowing myself to believe that my heart could ever be made out of something as fragile as glass.
All of a sudden, I don’t feel it anymore. I can’t feel pain, but not because I’ve felt it too much, but because I choose to numb it with emotions that are greater than pain. Neutrality. Self peace.
My life is starting over again, but we’re not rewinding to the beginning. We’re creating a sequel. You, whoever you are, and me.
They say that the sequel is never as good as the original movie, but I don’t think that’s necessarily true. Some stories never end – sometimes we are never satisfied and it is never enough, but the thing is, we just really haven’t spotted every detail that gives the movie meaning, that makes it what it is.
But first, let’s start from page one…