This Time I Am The Story

Didn't you say you had no heart? You wrote about how unsuccessful life has been to surprise you, to make you feel. You boasted--or complained--about how emotionless you are, thinking you've had your share of hopes and fears, saying you can't remember your last tear, expecting you have seen the worst and left it all behind. And when a reason to be sad came and not much changed inside you, you figured you have always been sad.

If you need a reminder that life can always get worse, then, oh, they will keep coming, those reminders. Maybe as an old man, who happens to be behind several good memories, lessons and, to summarise, had a big share in making you the person you are now. That old man in the ground, whom you helped bury, you left and turned your back while he faces his fate. The hole inside your chest, the one you read about in the fiction novels, burning and consuming, the hands around your shoulders, pretending they're not yours, declining your control, while you walk all alone. The first of the tears, you shred after years, that felt at first like legends, until you saw them fall in between your feet.

You once envied people who were capable of cryin now you look with fury at the laughing children, while you walk all alone. As if their joy is a direct insult, addressed to your person. The trembling in the fingers, you used to watch in movies, the one that propagates later through the arms, and then the back and shoulders until you lose control and you can stand no more. And by the way, lets mention that unfamiliar scene of a father and a son, the father on his knees, the son comforting him.

Before you compliment my imagination, I think I need to tell you: this is not good fiction, but a sad reality, for this time, I'm not the writer, this time I'm the story.

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