The last thing I wrote

Disclaimer:  This is gibberish and it’s a bit depressive. I strongly advise you not to read it since you’ll only be wasting your very precious time.

If you still go on and read it, I take no responsibility and no blame and you have every right to criticize.

March 2013, 9PM, « girl on fire » by « Alicia Keys » was playing, followed by « parler à mon père » by « Céline Dion »… The rain was pouring outside. I was angry. I just had a fight with my father whom I did not see for a week. The last thing I wrote.

The things I wrote, the feelings I had, the decisions I made and the memory of that night are still so vivid in my head. It was a chaotic week anyway.

But why?

Why was that the last time I ever wrote something?

How did I stop and it never occurred to me ’till now?

It just normally stopped and I never noticed.

So why? Why now?

Why am I typing again now?

And what am I going to talk about?

1 am sharp! It’s not like this is my first sleepless night. All of a sudden having the urge to write only to remember that it’s been more than 5 years; The moment I stopped writing.

What should I write?

Should I talk about my hopes and dreams?

Nobody cares about them…

Love?

But I’m not in love with anyone and no one is loving me…

Maybe depression?

That seems like a more attractive subject… Was there a time when I had it?

I’m confused…

Why am I still typing when there’s nothing to write?

Why do I like the way my hands move on the keyboard? Is it because I miss it?

Now I’m staring at the screen.

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He’s 4 hours late!

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Still staring.

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It’s dark outside.

There’s a black shadow outside the second floor window.

I’m scared!

There is this thief that keeps stalking me.

It’s been a while now that he feels so close. It seems like he’s staring at me. Cornering me, waiting for the right moment to steal my valuables… He keeps appearing every now and then, reminding me of his existence.

Is it OK to let yourself be stolen?

Actually, I keep worrying about those certain someones.

I can’t seem to make a choice. I mean, if you’re stolen, you won’t be thinking about anything and you won’t be worrying about anyone so why am I worried that if I’m stolen, their purpose in life will be lost?

Can someone really lose their purpose in life just because someone else has been stolen?

Why do I care when with time they’ll finally forget that I ever had something that’s worth stealing?

But what if this thief steels something else from me?

What if he steels someone else?

Will I lose it too?

Loss… Would it depend on the person he steels from?

My phone rings.

I’m scared.

They do not pick up the phone…

I’m scared.

They’re late…

I’m scared.

They call my name…

I’m scared.

It’s closing up on me…

I’m suffocating.

Hundreds of thoughts fill up my head… I imagine every single possible scenario of how they might have been stolen. I have quite the imagination when it comes to this.

I remember every single word and I think to myself that those words may be the last words I’ll ever hear them say.

I’m crying!

Why does this song have to be played now? I think the universe is conspiring on me.

My tears fill up my throat… I can’t breathe.

How did I end up like this? There was nothing to write about two hours ago!

I’m not weak-minded.

I’m the most reasonable, cold-hearted, care-free, and emotionally disturbed yet mentally stable person you can meet for this short moment.

Is it okay to be scared? Is it okay not to lose your purpose and go on living like nothing’s happened? Is it ok to forget sometimes?

Why does it seem like I’ll never forget?

I never picked up on phone numbers I don’t recognize before…

« Hello? Hello… Who is this? »

His voice was barely hearable… It was faded…

« It’s me… accident! I had an accident… »

These words hunt me every second of my life.

(What if I did not answer the phone?)

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Here he finally comes, late again, sitting on the edge of my bed, looking at me drowning in my tears, watching me ask all these questions, he won’t budge. He’s refusing to answer.

He did it 5 years ago too. That’s the reason we had a fight back then. He came a week late and watched me cry yet he refused to answer me. That was the first time my tears did not bother him.

« There is no need to worry. I can’t be stolen anymore. »

I just heard him say that.

Did he just read what I wrote?

Maybe he can’t hear me, and he can read what I write?

Is that why he hasn’t been answering me all these years?

Is that why he stayed? Because he read the last thing I wrote?