Perhaps the window to my soul closed a long time ago. perhaps, I have been dreaming a long time, and now I am awake. Perhaps what I thought to be my world, my life was nothing more than a string of moments and memories put together so I can say I lived. Perhaps I am the homeless man on the right, fantasizing I am the writer on this post. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
Those 7 letters have become ingrained in me, telling me nothing, give me no direction just a vague vision of what is to come, but perhaps that’s all an illusion.
I sit like that man, looking down half asleep, hoping, wishing, prayer for perhaps a better day, life or illusion or perhaps not.
I do not know where I want to be. I do know where I shall be. I just know that perhaps it will all work out
There is no time. Just me and her. The only quietness on her face while the room buzzes with small beeps indicating normalcy or a call for help. It has been far too long since I stared at her for so long. Her breathing gentle, accompanied with small grimaces of pain when she moves too suddenly.
I only see her face, holding onto my coffee with dear life, focusing my gaze on her body and willing for the stranger inside her to be gone. I imagine being lazer like and just destroy all that is foreign. I gaze and focus on her willing my love to pour into her and eradicate all that bothers her. I imagine feeling her with so much joy there is room for nothing else.
I lean in closer to her, filling my vision with just her face, imagining beautiful eyes full of life, laughter and the knowledge that everything is going to be alright. I stare hard, hoping/wishing/praying that somehow the cancer can teleport into me (Star Trek like). I stare, willing the enemy within to just go away, get away from my love. Shoo! You don’t belong here. I stare and I stare.
It makes no sense to those who have met me in the last 10 years. They just know the Jovial, card playing, hard-drinking Sanjay who is a lawyer but doest practice, has a great family business and has no real need to work. It makes no sense to them that I want to write. Actually, it’s not really a want, it has become more a need. With my recent stroke and the travails of my girlfriends disease, it has become the only place I can be really true to myself.
It’s in those 30 to 45 minutes that I can really hear myself talking and thinking. Everything drowns away and it’s just me and the words. In that time, I am neither happy, nor sad just a writer with his tools trying to make sense of the world around him.
That is why I write: to live, to breathe, to feel, to just be.
This picture perfectly describes my feelings these past few months. I cannot breathe due to the hypocrisy surrounding me nor can I rely on the friends I thought I had. I cannot save people from their mistakes nor can I can trust them when they lie to me about them. I cannot be the perfect boyfriend or always present. I cant, I won’t get it right, I know that but still I keep trying to move forward, to keep moving so I don’t drown in the despair of sorrow and helplessness. Gotta avoid the tears, the realization that our lives are no longer headed on the paths we had planned on, no! counted on.
I wish I knew where to start. Perhaps shake the one that cheated or the one that got cheated on and then lied to me about ending it. Or do I shake the one with a selfish boyfriend who couldn’t even call or text his cousin while she battles the big C but has time to meet his girlfriend or yell at someone’s family because I am overwhelmed and feel utterly alone and helpless? How many people do I stop talking to? I realize that everyone’s an adult and the problem isnt them but me. I am drowning myself.
Because the truth is, I am sick of people, their lies, their insecurities, their willingness to be fake or care when they only really only care about themselves. Sick of being around people who say they are there but in reality are only there because it seems the right thing to say but not do.
The words just sit there. The guilt sits behind them. Yet nothing moves. I plead with the clock to slow down, to let me gather whatever’s lying around so I do not feel like a fraud. Yet nothing comes. It is as if I am spent from fighting the cancer in my beloved, and while the movie reel in my head sputters along, the projection screen is blank.
I can’t stop thinking of writing, and seeing every conversation as potential dialogue. It’s as if my body is become one huge receptacle for ideas and possible stories. Yet I want it to stop. I feel like Scott Summers from the Xmen, unless I put some glasses on, I can’t stop the lasers from destroying the world near m me.
Just stop, I beg regretting ever having starting this muse yet it grows just like the enemy in my love. Her body betrayed her and now I feel like my mind is doing the same. The words keep growing and I pray they don’t spread to my hands because I need the energy and the strength to by her side.
I want nothing except for her. She is my life. Without her, I am just another person, but together we become one unit that can take on the world. But we have been let down by our bodies, hers turning against her and making her wonder what she did to deserve this and mine seeing everything as a reason to write.
But both of us are wrong. All we is the present and blame worry sadness don’t belong because the reality is we will both survive, one as a writer and one as former cancer patient. That is our new reality. It doesn’t take anything away from us, it just has made us a thousand times stronger.
While we will kill one cancer, we will allow another one to spread so it can kill the doubts worries and sadness in others. In hindsight, maybe being an X Man, isn’t such a bad thing.
