Something of Myself
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Moment of Truth
She stands by the door. Dark circles under her eyes. Just like mine. Lips parted. As if wanting to say something but hesitating. Just like me. She picks up the bag. Full of clothes that she brought for herself. She is leaving behind all the ones that I had given her. It's lying by the bedside. It's her way of renouncement. Her way of walking out. Her way of walking into her glamorous future. The lights. The awards. The late nights. The men. The fancy cars. Everything awaits.
And I sit on the couch. Stinking of alcohol. Looking at her. Squinted. Images flash by. The speed of Ferrari. Inebriated as I am, all I see is a moving blur. Can't play the blame game anymore...From today, in a few seconds, it's all about me, me and more me. Don't have the comfort of her hair. Don't have the softness of her lips. Don't have the strength of her words. Just me, my laptop, the couch (that she bought) and cheap alcohol.
This is not a tale. Neither a piece of fiction. It is about a moment. A fine moment in the life of two individuals. The delicate moment when the chord is just about to snap. Like that.
And it's so incredibly difficult to put it in words.
If it were a movie, the shot would last, probably, a minute? May be less than that.
So easy to take sides. To take guard. How painfully tough to remain objective. To shed your subjectivity. To stand out of the borders of human relationships. Beyond boundaries. That to, circular ones. You at the centre. And the relationships moving around you. Blooming with conditions. And when you decide to just move away a little, like half an inch from the locus...
She stands by the door. Dark circles under her eyes...
She stands by the door. Dark circles under her eyes. Just like mine. Lips parted. As if wanting to say something but hesitating. Just like me. She picks up the bag. Full of clothes that she brought for herself. She is leaving behind all the ones that I had given her. It's lying by the bedside. It's her way of renouncement. Her way of walking out. Her way of walking into her glamorous future. The lights. The awards. The late nights. The men. The fancy cars. Everything awaits.
And I sit on the couch. Stinking of alcohol. Looking at her. Squinted. Images flash by. The speed of Ferrari. Inebriated as I am, all I see is a moving blur. Can't play the blame game anymore...From today, in a few seconds, it's all about me, me and more me. Don't have the comfort of her hair. Don't have the softness of her lips. Don't have the strength of her words. Just me, my laptop, the couch (that she bought) and cheap alcohol.
This is not a tale. Neither a piece of fiction. It is about a moment. A fine moment in the life of two individuals. The delicate moment when the chord is just about to snap. Like that.
And it's so incredibly difficult to put it in words.
If it were a movie, the shot would last, probably, a minute? May be less than that.
So easy to take sides. To take guard. How painfully tough to remain objective. To shed your subjectivity. To stand out of the borders of human relationships. Beyond boundaries. That to, circular ones. You at the centre. And the relationships moving around you. Blooming with conditions. And when you decide to just move away a little, like half an inch from the locus...
She stands by the door. Dark circles under her eyes...
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