- Books, Literature, and Writing
The Remains of a Confession
There's this woman. A friend. I love her more than anyone else. Sometimes I think it's not real, that it's all in my head. An illusory wonder. Her years have passed me by, like trains - stopping and leaving right on time but I never boarded any of them. Besides what do I know of friendship? Of Love? Everything and nothing.
But I look at her and I smile. I look at her and my throat begins to close. She's a house in a rain swept soul. She's the nostalgia of young dreams. Young discoveries. The sense of being poised for flight. The unsettled snow globe.
A perpetual imprint in this world of fleeting things.
I look at her and I suddenly miss everything. I miss the world. I miss living. The synapses firing a hundred colors in succession. The body singing with music. The uncaging of a passionate soul. The laughter of friends. And all their gentle burdens.....
I used to look out for her - our sweet childhood years becoming the image of something that is never forgotten. Now she's all grown. Now I'm in need of looking after. In her hands, my life untangles and breathes. Everything is made a little easier. The lull of daydreams is quietened. A place of eternal horizon. She would lasso the moon for me.....
I look at her and I forget all the words. The ones that matter. The ones that don't. I look at her and I want to rewrite a part of me. And in my dreams I have. I'm someone else.
This is how I love her. Part escapism. Part commitment. Part remembrance. Part in need. But completely real. This is how I love her. It is feeling like a flock of birds suddenly taking off in the wintry sun.
"I am more of an illusionist that a deceiver, but it all comes from being in fact, a very private person. Even if it was true that you knew me better than anyone, I’d never admit it. I’d rather dig my own heart out, with a rotten spoon, than admitting it. I may let people in my own little world occasionally, but I would never let them be aware of it. I don’t throw my intimacy in front of others, especially when I care. The more I care, the less I give away, and this is something for you to understand, and grant me your forgiveness. I didn't play my tricks on you in order to deceive you, but rather to save myself, and maybe even deceive myself as well. I’ve had hidden my feelings for you so deeply that I've learned to live with them, as if any other casualty. I have done wrong to myself as much as I did to you, and I don’t know if I can forgive myself. So now I wonder, could you forgive me without feeling sorry for me?" - Aleksandra Ninkovic