August, 2016.  Catharsis. 

It has always been easy for me to be in touch with my feelings; now that you’re gone, I wish in vain that I did not know myself so intimately.Grief tears me apart and numbs me in quick succession, a viciously incessant cycle that has become my existence. All it takes is a single innocuous image or a whiff of a familiar smell to send me into a whirlwind of longing for a simpler time. All my life, I’ve been unapproachable and cold; but it seems you’ve driven the final nail into the coffin- forgive the pun, I’m in a mood- and blocked me out of everything I’ve ever known and turned to. Sometimes, I think twice about breaking an unwritten rule, subconsciously conjuring up the disapproval in your tinny voice over the phone, and then I am overcome by a grotesque tempest, stomach roiling, realising once again that I need not think about your disapproval ever again.

You are the dying flame in the back of my mind, as you always have been; you don’t care to know about my every move, but you always hover; warm, nagging, senescent and youthful all at once. Perhaps you are my conscience- we certainly disagreed very often. I wanted to grow up and you were afraid that I already had. I don’t want to grow up anymore. But it seems you were right, and I already have.

All you have left me are regrets and the memory of your hatred for camera lenses lingering on your face. You have pulled the ground out from under me. I tried to talk about you so long ago, to give my misery a tangible, destructible incarnation- another ghost of broken words to haunt my ugly dreams- but it seemed the silence in the vacant room was drowned out by the loudness of the blank off-white page on the table. I tried, but I thought that I could never write again. Another regret: the weight of my resentment for you as I realised that not only had you left, but you had left clasping in your cold dead fingers the only part of me that had been constant and familiar through strife and grief and loss- my writing. Now that you have deemed me worthy of possessing the ability again, I am floundering guardedly, surrounded by people who do not know and will never care.

Am I betraying you by finding my release? You never liked my complex questions. I suppose this one shall go unanswered as well. All there is left to do is to say a premature and long overdue goodbye. Goodbye, familiar warmth and loud opinions and second-hand ambition. Goodbye; I suppose it’s time. Goodbye, and I am sorry, and I wish that I could ask you to be sorry, but that is what children do; and I am not a child. I hope you can understand that. Goodbye.

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