Far, far, far

Everything seems a little too far. Every feeling, every experience, every love, every tear, everything. I place myself on an entirely different plane and I find that everything’s a little too far away. I see only distorted images that are engraved in my memory, but are not living. The past is not living in me, it’s stale and dead and left behind. And then I delude myself with thinking that I connect so well with every little bit of history, of my own history. I think that time is never against me. That distance only exists on paper. That I can trick everyone who says being far is being gone into believing that I will be the first to defy that statement. But reality sinks in and I know that I’m far too far.

No matter how perfect now is, and it is almost always perfect, I miss the then and I fear the next. I hold my breath until now comes again and takes the place of the next. I bind myself in this box of a paradox so that I never have to face my fears. I look back, never in anger, always with love and think that by looking back, I actually live the past. I think that by thinking about the past, I manage to make time stand still. I think that just maybe I have enough power to never just lose, but win this battle that I don’t even realise I’m fighting. But then, there’s always something to remind me that I’m far too far.

Habits don’t scare me and the new doesn’t scare me and I even dare to wave out of the window of my train slowly pulling away from all that I once knew. This is simply my plight and my pledge and my bleeding sorrow upon realising that time does indeed move linearly and I am together with all of you, moving with it. That I’m too small and too mortal to have an effect, to know and have the power to change the direction of our conveyor belt. And this is the reason that I get ripped out of the now and thrown into the next. This is why I feel far. Far too far.

But before I go insane, I learn to walk away. Head straight up, take the pain, take all that you can muster to take. So I leave the love. I leave the key. I leave the happy to see happier days commence with me. I leave people and places. I leave dinner and wines and tables and laughter. I meet people. I join dinners, wines and laughter. I shed everything, I bear the pain of a fleshless existence and then I learn to grow more beautiful skin. Every season I appear to be more than before. But as I get pulled away and the places and people grow ever smaller, I realise that screaming, “hey don’t forget me” will only confirm my fear that I’ve been moved too far away. Far too far away.