Tag: poetic stories

Reflection

~ W. Donovan ~ Leave a comment

I called my friend the other day and wanted to tell them how lonely I felt. But everything was wrapped in reality too tightly. Should I really share it with someone whose mind is never on ease? Should I show the back of my hand, where words write themselves, to someone whom I keep only in my past?

Perhaps the honesty would’ve been easier, but I ended up saying nothing. After all, it was just loneliness, and many people struggle with that, with every minute of their damn lives.

Don’t get me wrong, I know my feelings are valid. It’s just… something I can live with. Potentially.

My only advantage is, I can always come back to my head. Sink deeply in my mind where I always feel whole. I can write stories and create events. I can make conversations that never happened. I can draw faces and I can draw places that never disappear.

I can always talk to you in my head.

Even though, you don’t respond anymore.

I stare in every mirror, looking for your reflection. I look for your face on the streets, hoping to meet you one day. In the darkness, I can hear your voice calling my name. I close my eyes and I feel your warm arms around me, I can feel your soft lips on mine.

Being in my head is safe. Everything is colourful there, everything is interesting there. It’s only when I get out, do I realize I am completely alone. With every cell of my body, do I feel the loneliness coating me like a blanket.

Quicker

~ W. Donovan ~ 3 Comments

Do you sometimes wonder what your life would be like without people?

I often think it would be better.

I’m not talking about being the only human on the planet because that would be boring.

I am talking about solitude so deep and heavy that you don’t allow people to come closer, when you live just next to them.

Imagine a life where you do whatever you want whenever you want without justifying yourself to others. When the words you say don’t reach your heart, when your eyes show nothing but carelessness so lightly resting on your forehead.

There would be no expectations, no attachments, no liking. So that, you can easily walk away whenever you want.

Imagine a life when you have only yourself as company.

There’s no way I can live on this earth without turning my heart into stone.

Please don’t let me hide anymore, even though I want it so badly.

You probably call me a lunatic, a contradiction, a paradox.

Living without people would be easier, but the truth is that’s not at all what I want. In fact, I want the exact opposite. I crave meaningful connections with people. Not jibber jabber. Words have a meaning. Words have power. Don’t just spit them out.

The thing is, most people don’t care whom they speak to, they speak only to fill the silence with speaking. It pains me a lot because it almost always means that I was just a random person amongst the crowd.

There’s no point in remembering the conversation that we had, no point in getting attached to you, no point in getting attached to the place I wished to call home. The words that you toss so easily, they will float away from us, so that we could forget quicker.

It’s because I was hurt so deeply, I’m ashamed to admit it even to myself. How can I say it out loud without acknowledging the fissures in my flesh, without acknowledging the slimy blood covering my hands.

22 Diaries. Story eleven

~ W. Donovan ~ 3 Comments

How did I find myself there? Why?

That’s the questions I keep asking myself.

At first I thought it was a great place to grow and learn new things. It wasn’t.

Then I thought it was about you, because I’ve never experienced a connection like this before. But you turned out to be a liar.

Then why?

I believe that things happen for a reason, hence the questions I keep asking myself over and over again. Why?

This story was supposed to be addressed to you, but I don’t feel like I can trust you anymore. So, there it is as follows:

I know I’ve been here before, in this place. All the people and all the events. I’ve met them, I’ve seen them. The feeling is so strong that I almost cannot deny that this is the right thing, no matter how wrong it may seem.

You once told me that everything is written in the stars, that She plays every part in our lives, that everything gets Her way. I remember that it came with such a relieve, because it meant that we don’t have to worry about anything…

Perhaps, the thing I thought I was wasn’t true. Perhaps, I believed in the image of me that people created. Hearing everyday how good and unique I was, I believed I was good and unique. Perhaps, what I am is the thing I am right now. Nothing more.

All the things I learnt were just useless things easy to learn. Life itself wasn’t written in the book, though. That’s why I didn’t know how to learn it. That’s why I don’t know how to live a life that doesn’t go beyond the cover of the book. The real life.

And this is what makes a lot of sense.

22 Diaries. Story ten

~ W. Donovan ~ 1 Comment

Once I said to someone that I felt drained, out of energy, mentally tired. They asked: ‘Why won’t you do something for yourself?’

I assume he wanted to suggest I buy something to myself or travel somewhere or go out for a dinner. The thing is, I do a lot for myself. I buy myself flowers, I take baths with bubbles, I eat chocolate, I travel a lot and I buy pretty things.

As a half orphan I feel the sense of abandonment under my skin. I learnt that you can never rely on other people. It doesn’t matter what they say and how many promises they make. They can never love you as much as you can love yourself. So, yeah, believe me I know how to take care of myself. Physically… at least.

I do not believe that material possessions can heal your crying soul. Wonder why I’m so tired? Because I was dismissed. Because my skills apparently meant nothing. Because I wasn’t good enough. That is what pains me more. You do not have to love me, but you have to need me as a professional. Without it I feel useless.

The forgotten dreams lie heavily on me, crashing my inner self of belonging, where towers collapse releasing demons, which chase me every day.

And this is where it begins…