• Vol. 02
  • Chapter 07
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Where else but you?

I go away sometimes. I go away, to stow a little piece of you away. It’s my thirty-seventh time in the last three years, so that’s thrice in a quarter of a year? I don’t think that’s too bad really. I go there because sometimes you forget that I need you to forget things, that you cannot keep piling them one on top of the other, making memory after memory; those piles stacked against the central atrium now reach up to only a few feet off the ceiling, threatening to break through the glass already.
You terrify me, you know. Every time I think I’ve figured you out, I haven’t. Every time I think I’ve held your reins firm enough, I haven’t. You break free and go and what terrifies me is how subtly you do it. How smoothly, how easily, how silently. You amaze me too – how when I let you be, you create and you create so magnificently; how I cannot always figure how you know as much as you do – have I fed it all to you myself or do you feed off me?
In reminiscences, is where I live. In nostalgia, in the past. And each of that, belongs to you, occupying a few crevices each. ‘Can you promise me that you’ll be kind to them?’ is what I’ve asked you at least thirty seven times, and I’ve been met with muteness thirty seven times. So, I go away. I go away and I come back, each part more intact than before and the atrium, a little more congested. I come back wishing that maybe I should not have you the way I do, the way you are.
But if I don’t have you, I won’t have my memories. Where will I live then?