I can tell you what it means, to have misery and joy all combined into one. Knowing that you will be robbed of everything. That every identifiable shred of your tumultuous identity will be stolen, and you will be left, formless. That you will own and tarnish the past and re-create every inch of it. You will lose everything, but what you will retain is the dull sense of ownership; of knowing that you painstakingly created this, from scratch, against opposition. And you will be left with an empty slate, to re-write.
I remember it all. Like it was happening now, in front of me. Knowing what would make this perfect, and yet knowing it was impossible. Fighting everything, including myself to make it possible. And then giving it up. Knowing when it would self-destruct. Knowing when I was not right. Knowing when I was. But, also knowing that my brightness needed illumination. That an atmosphere that damned would not only be brutal on me, it would also be brutal on you. Knowing that our separation was our only salvation. That through distance we would reach closure. That in moments of self doubt, your sight would cure the dull ache; or intensify the lack of it. That your irresistible purpose was me, and mine was you. That we were intertwined. And yet, we were parasitic. We, not I.
Would liberation destroy me? Would freedom render me numb?
Goodbye to you. Not because I can’t live with you, but because I should try to live without you. Because we are too in sync to see the painful consequence of our partial co-betrayal. I can hear you. I can hear you call out in agony. I can see the arms stretched out in desirous platitudes. I can feel those shards of deceit stab you, like they were stabbing me. Your identity is now enmeshed in mine, we are unbreakable. But, to those that barely know us (everybody), we are separate. And they perhaps will find a way to revive you. To re-instate life into that which you have always identified as mine. In the lack of me, you will morph and become you.
Me? You ask, softly. I will be okay, darling. The power to create rests decisively within the recesses of that which you call yours, but is irrevocably mine.