Turnstiles

And we’ve reached a point where you just don’t care…

Where I have become, from a laughing eager bundle of fun, a passive stranger, haunted by the ghost of my past, that never will die away, but only will make it more difficult for me to survive.

Breathe on, I will. Die, I won’t. Live, I don’t know.

I wonder how easily you can hurt me. I’m amazed that my pain has ceased to bother you. Have we come to this already?

This strange feeling of not belonging to each other, nor to anyone else? Not to our own self even?

I used to think there was a limit to everything. A limit to loss, a limit to tears, a limit to love, and a limit to agony.

How naïve! None of these has boundaries. Not one of them follows logic or commands. 

Failures are endless, and you can cry infinite times plus one. You can love someone like you’ve never before, feeling that you can’t exceed ever, and yet you discover new ways every passing day. And agony…

As each pain throbs and dulls, a new one takes its place. Challenges and obstacles multiply each time you pass one, and disappointment lurks around the corner, promising you to grind you and push you down, as you struggle to rise with new hope and vigour. Being resilient is a curse, smiling through pain is a shame. The best ones among us do it. And we are punished for our crime by being made to scream in our hearts, calm and mute outside.   

How much can you test me? How badly will you make me suffer? Are you waiting for me to give in and give up? Are my bent head and moist cheeks reward enough?

As I lie next to you here tonight, I feel purposeless, unneeded, a trespasser on your bed, a stranger that thought not unwelcome, just doesn’t belong. I feel like an intruder, depriving you of the most minimal place that I occupy on your bed as I shrink to take no more space than absolutely necessary. I’ve never felt this way before.

I wonder why I do today. I wonder what has changed. I wonder what can I say to make it better.

Nothing. Its best when I say nothing and feign normalcy.

Isn’t that what you want of me?

I wish I wasn’t here. I wish my thoughts would carry my body just like they’ve transported my mind to a place where my presence is acknowledged and cherished, not merely taken for granted.

Am I demanding too much, by expecting you to care? Should I feel guilty for hating your peaceful lack of concern? I feel a stab of unrest, of foreboding.

A voice inside my head says that it wasn’t always this way. The fact that it is now, isn’t good news. Is it a herculean task to ask me what’s bothering me? Why I am feeling the way I am?

When asked, am I supposed to answer immediately for fear that you mayn’t ask again? Have I been reduced to that level of formality? Have I brought this upon myself?

I don’t know. All I know is that my unhappiness means nothing to you.

If that is true, what am I doing here with you? If my pain and turmoil don’t top your list of worries, am I justified in spending this gorgeous life with you, in such an unworthy fashion?

Come to think of it, have I become unworthy to you? An obligation that you no longer love or want, but have only gotten used to?

A tear slides down my cheek as I wonder what has brought us to this.

Should I blame destiny for everything that has not worked out the way I wanted it to?

Has destiny made you forget that I am lying right next to you, barely a few inches away physically but miles and yards away emotionally?

Has destiny made me aware of just how insignificant and useless I feel with you?

Is this what I was bound to look forward to, as I fought my peers who advised me against the same consequence?

Every minute here is torture. Each fingernail of space here is a favour.

The few centimetres between me and you are now as vast as those between the moon and earth. A distance I can neither ignore nor bridge.

Now that we’ve reached a point where you just don’t care…

I continue to breathe, but how long will I last this way, I can’t say…

P.S : This is a work of fiction, fellas. Don't worry, I'm good :-)

Love,
Princess