It's ten past five. I'm in the shower letting my body indulge in a hot bath after a very long day, when the alarm on my cellphone goes off. I know it's time but I am not ready, just not ready yet to let go of the warm water dripping on my skin. I try to close my eyes to the sound of my steamy bath room and all I could do is visualize the message on my lock screen.
I blink and try to change the direction of my thoughts drifting every few seconds from gay to glum and from morose to repentant. My heart was never a frail machine, my head was the culprit wavering on the brink of nervous emotions. It swayed from love songs in 1975 to a timeless death in 1963. The thoughts of all the warm embraces bought me smiles and I cooed for all my footsteps that were walking away from everyone who found me. There was once a little girl that lost her identity and picked up all junk on the way moulding it into an all new version of herself. She wrote about the dragons and painted them black. The knights in shining armour never caught her attention for she was a warrior. She was her own hero.
She loathed the handsome rich princes for one of them broke her glass slippers. All she was consistently aware was that she had a choice; the choice of being actively contented or being passively melancholic. There was no fine line between that; no deflecting in between black and white. She was consistent and driven by cheap thrills. There were transient flashbacks of fast cars and the boys driving them. I saw myself letting my hair down, putting my hands up in the air and a shiver runs down my spine imagining the wind against my skin. There were kisses that felt like sunshine on a cold winter morning and a bunch of lovers that felt like sniffing cocaine in mid July. My thoughts were like a tree branching out in all directions and every where the chaos ended, it hurt; it hurt. But every time there was fall, the silence depressed me; my silence depressed me. Every falling leaf was like a photograph that cried out, "Remember me. Remember me." Like every time, I walked away with no care in my head and no love in my heart. Murder was evil, but dying was an art.
The film changes and the girl is running away. She has fear in her eyes and a something like a beat in her heart. The city is crowded and the streets so full while my head plays 'Hey there Delilah' unreasonably. She stops at a book store and stares into the space for seconds. She lifts a book and runs away until she stops abruptly in front of a passer by. She knew this was inadequate but she had to let this out. He wasn't another soul to cling to; not another soul to consume.
"Maybe we'll meet again, when we are older and mature and our heads less clumsy. You and I will be just about right. But right now I am the colour of chaos to your head and you're a poisoned apple for my heart."
His head was like a newly built city, every growing, never ending and I wanted to explore all of it one step at a time. For once in my twenty three years of existence, I see shades of grey. I popped two capsules of Prozac 20 mg and turned off the alarm. Forever bored me; I want all of everything now while the people you've met before can wait for their happy endings.
The book reads "Let's Run Together Again?"