For years I held onto the masochistic trickery of our insidious almost-relationship. The world knew of it not, for I had it concealed beneath the opaque fabric of time. Every kvetch and pondering that escaped my lips misled the world into thinking I had an insurmountable attachment towards the days of my past. Friends and people urged me to move on. From what really? They knew nothing of.
It would not be a lie to state firsthand that the avalanche of my vices were aplenty. Whilst they held in them an element of notoriety, they were not without purity. They were distractions, screaming for the attention unattainable by the truest and purest of all my yearnings, leaving me in tragic dissatisfaction. Time and time again, bad habits deceived me. Yet i let them. I knew that so long as there remained from within me an unrequited passion, I would never stray so far as to lose my humanity. Cruel as circumstance always left me, our almost-relationship kept me from a fire of distasteful regret. I kept it safe in a box, where I danced around it, over it, above it; never to allow the gravel of my greed to permeate into it. For me, it was to be kept apart; it was to be buried 6 feet beneath the ground in the richness of a soil that breathed life into the flowers of the fields.
If and when it would fade into a dark grey obsolescence, I would let it. Untainted and beautiful as it was. It was not until the day that I was pushed into a near encounter with depression again that I realised that this insidious almost-relationship of ours was verminous; so verminous that it was dark more than it was light. The choices of you never corresponded with that of mine, not when I was weak, nor when I gave up all I had for you whilst I was weak. You only saw me when I was strong. You saw me when I was unmistakably brilliant. You saw me when I had something up my sleeve, a grin, a risk, a song. So what of the times that I had hurt you with my insensitivity? Did you not see that your retaliations were forthcoming and equally agonising? When exactly would you open those eyes of yours to behold the manner in which we tore each other apart? When would you grow the compassion to saunter towards the button in red screaming Stop; to reach out your saving finger to press it hard, ending once and for all this hurt you have generously poured unto my brittle bones?
We spoilt it plenty, we spoilt it bad. And while in an unknown sphere of time we sustained all that we could, with every passing day and with every fleeting choice we broke each other all the more. I knew deep in my soul I could never love anyone else yet I knew that I most certainly had to lest this lesion would fester to destroy me.
So where exactly are we?
My dear we're, slow dancing in a burning room.
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