Over these past few months, I’ve begun to see my life as more of a film reel flashing in front of my eyes, often without my consent. Most writers, I believe, tend to romanticize the tragedies that occur in their lives, and I am no exception to that rule.
Though I have a tendency to escape when I write, it’s the aftermath of it that showcases this urgency to face things as they are. Writing often tells me my own truth in a tale that feels like a dream.
I found myself drifting back to June as a detached body, observing the events of it all. Today, it all feels like another life. I think about the betrayal, the anxiety, the rage. I think about the disgust I felt within my own body. But mostly, I think about how it was at that moment where I began to string all the missing pieces of the puzzle. All the memories flooded back to instances where I should have known.
I think about the outpour of love that ambushed my life in the moments following. That when one thing ends, other parts of your life have room to expand. That perhaps, that one thing was what was keeping everything else from growing this whole time.
And then I think about August. I think about lying down on your balcony, gazing up at the stars and tracing the constellations with the tips of my fingers. Holding hands as we ran away, sailing down the ocean to escape our worlds together. I remember feeling alive, which only stirred more confusion. How long must I have been dead?
I think about all of these moments in time that spread themselves across a matter of months. And I think about today, as a result, rather than a consequence of all these moments.