“You know you don’t have to do this.”

“Essentially, everyone knows what they have and don’t have to do. They just don’t usually sure about themselves most of the time. I know what I’m doing.”

“But this road part is crucial. You can’t do anything reckless.”

“Am I, now? It’s a beautiful, sad crisis. And I’ve been travelling it since more than a year ago. I went on and on, inherent to human nature. I’ve been doing what I need to do to survive.”

“And how are you?”

“Half-angry, half-sad. I fooled myself to the game of protection. I’m holding on to my ego: well-trained to endure, numb, and distract myself, blinding my emotion. A defense mechanism, to keep my heart at bay.”

“You forget that love and hate are the same emotion, camouflaged in different costumes. You’re growing your hate in the same way you grow your love.”

“They are in two different sides of field. But the opposite is still the same. We call it ignorance. It kills both love and hate. Love, especially.”

“It killed yours?”

“Subtly. Crueler than everything. The trail of her touch that lingered– fired with passion of her skin against mine, was my assailant. Her lips that stole my breath away– that destroyed me, was the instrument of my affliction. But the ignorance – her ignorance, which also helped mine to grow – have been lingering dreadfully in the stillness between who we were. Between what she and I could be.”

“Ignorance. Yes. A murderer. Always a homicide scene. It killed every word inside the brain with points sharper than spearheads and phrasing blunter than cement bricks. The silence is excruciating. It slowly devours hearts.”

“My consciousness is holding it inside me. It stops the killing. It tries to erase the guilt. It holds back more than the verdict of an open and shut murder trial.”

“Maybe it’s been simply misunderstood all this time. Listen closely. Do your heart and mind spoke about it many times before? Does it pain you like it should?”



“Occasionally. From time to time. Once In a while. Sometimes. When I look across the memories that she and I once loved, laughed, and wept in– where I smiled at her and called every moment that we had as our moment. Yes, it was our moment. Her moment. My moment. Now it’s just mine, and mine alone.”

“Think of it. If only people could decide how hurt someone is allowed to be with their behaviour, what kind of world would it be? Or rather, how badly do you want to be hurt? Would you ask for your own, personal torture?”

“Drown someone, and decide how loud they could scream. Stab someone, and decide how much they are allowed to bleed. Set someone on fire, and decide how much of a mess their ashes are allowed to make. Destroy someone, and decide how ruined they are allowed to feel.”

“Crush your heart, break it to pieces, step on it, and?”

“And feel everything. I’d take everything as it is. You don’t let people know about it, mostly because you can’t. And it’s useless. People don’t understand how much they have hurt other people. They can’t. We can’t. Not ever. No human being is empathetic enough to do it.”

“But no matter how much you’ve hurt, you’ll forget it. You’ll heal. You will. She will. Everyone will. No matter how dark the night is, the sun will rise again.”

“And the night will falls down and cast its shroud again eventually. Yes, and no. Yes, I will – or rather, I might – heal. But no, I will not forget about it.”

“Everyone forgets. There will always be things that they push to the back of their head, things that will blur, and died, along with time.”

“It’s been quite some time since I saw her. Maybe I will forget about some things.”

“But not the feelings.”

“Maybe not the feelings. But if ignorance keeps gnawing on the lines between me and her, maybe I will soon forget something. Maybe. Maybe; maybe; maybe.”

“Always be afraid of how our memory works.”

“And it has to come from what I would always see from her face.”

“Lips? Eyes? Nose?”

“Her eyes. I might soon forget the color of that pair of stars that she has.”

“.. And maybe, maybe she will forget mine.”





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