A maybe. An anticipation, a wait, ambiguity. Insecurity. Losing ground under my feet. Keep your feet well planted - I cited yesterday, yes, keep. Except today it didn’t work. My feet are in the air and I am struggling to place them onto something solid. I made another human being responsible for my happiness. Unwillingly. I did promise myself never to do it, and yet. And they don’t even know. They don’t know I feel burning from the inside, at the edges of a hole that has their shape. They won’t know it. Because that hole is mine, and no matter the shape I am the only one who can fill it.
How do I become myself again? Find a way to the familiar, the identity I’ve built? You are fearing what you may become if you let go, - she said. Old patterns, old thoughts, old beacons - none of them worked, I must remember that. But do I have something to replace them now?
Remember me, for my memory, for the things I never would let go. Remember me, if you like, or forget me, I don’t mind, it’s a comforting suggestion all my worries with me die. - she sings.
Familiar question: who am I, actually? Someone who learnt to beat their dog, from their father? Someone who regrets this more than perhaps anything else they’ve done? Someone who both knows the pain, and how it feels to inflict it? Someone who wants to bury this memory? Or someone who wants to accept this is …me? Am I someone who’s running from myself, using work and a hobby as an excuse? Where is my depth? Do I even have depth? And why am I asking all this now?
How do I look at myself with the eyes full of love when there is so much that I see that makes me frown or cringe? How to see the good when everything blurs, exposing the emptiness inside? The longing. Is it empty? Or is it just.. gravity? Is it so dense and full of matter that it creates a pull so strong it hurts itself?
My own star, inside me. Both empty and pulling. Pulling so hard that it absorbs everything that gets close. And grows. And keeps pulling. Is a black hole malevolent? Or just attractive?