Tears streamlined my face as I begin shuddering under the morbidity of the situation. My breathing becomes shaky and my voice cracks as I try to tell myself “No!”

EARLIER…

Friday. I can’t believe it’s been an entire week.  7 whole days. 168 hours. 10,080 minutes. 604,800 seconds. The unrest I feel within spirit was starting to turn me into a scientific calculator.

But when you deeply miss someone, you tend to log the time that has separated you.  And this was no different.

Night-by-night I’d take to my bedroom window, maintaining my steady vigil. My eyes glimmering with expectancy, as I mentally convince myself that a glimpse of your figure would reappear.

You’d always tap on my window at random hours, signalling me to sneak you inside the house when you were certain that everyone else was asleep.

From there, I’d invite you into the oven box that is my bedroom. Whose Maximum Occupancy is 1 by the way (Except in the case of extenuating circumstances). But I made an exception for that face of pure gold and those glossy, electrifying eyes.

We’d spend those odd hours together. I’d be trying to come up with another topic to write about and you’d be travelling in unexplored territory. A waking distraction you were.

However, sometimes I didn’t mind. Sometimes I needed to be distracted from everything that was currently wrong. All the hurt and mental warfare. And you were my escape.

Falling asleep next to each other after an exhausting night, then realizing that both of us overslept is still funny to me. Your antsy facial expression when the sunrise occasionally greeted us in the coming morning is forever embedded in my cerebrum.

Arising from bed sluggishly, I’d open the door and allow you to be on your way. And in your own special way, you’d thank me and leave. Yet, there was always something reassuring about your departure, something that assured me you’d always return.

I guess I was wrong.

After a few seconds… minutes of nocturnal surveillance, a strip of discouragement saran wraps me into a depression sandwich. And I collapse onto my bed.

And while I’m falling, as my head travels through the dense air, inevitably plunging into my pillow, everything around me fades into distorted shades of nothingness.

I am sad.

Now left like a sheep in the pasture, only to be slaughtered by the ravenous wolves that are my thoughts. But maybe I deserved it? To be taken apart physically by my own mental prowess and tendency to self-blame. Was I somehow the reason you left?

These days I find myself reflecting keenly on those days – those very dark days where I’d deny you access into my room because I was going through shit I didn’t want to deal with.

I was being angry at the world, at myself, and with problems that were nowhere close to having anything to do with you. I was an asshole at times. And I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.

Tears streamlined my face as I begin shuddering under the morbidity of the situation. My breathing becomes shaky and my voice cracks as I try to tell myself “No!”

Unfortunately I can’t achieve this feat verbally, so I have no choice but to resort to my mind. I now have the tumultuous task of converting the contents of my consciousness into something constructive. Talk about a workout.

Somehow tapping into reserved inner-strength I never knew existed, I started generating positive images. I had to convince myself that the whole thing wasn’t my fault. That I wasn’t the liability.

Handpicking the more fluorescent memories, I started to feel better about myself and the whole ordeal. I was very good to you. Better than I was to most people, including myself.

I allowed you to be exposed to a part of me that I keep in bondage because of my living paranoia for human kind. You inexplicably made me less of an Ice Prince and more of a loving individual.

I even recall the first time I admitted my love for you. (Yes, a flashback within a flashback. )

It was college application time, and I was applying for some pretty elite universities and found myself gazing, dumbfounded by the question sitting smug on my computer screen.

“What matters to you and why?”

And after a few hours in my bed, in dark and solitude, I managed to flesh out an honest response:

Whoever started the notion that dog was man’s best friend was an idiot. Because ever since Garfield and Tomas meowed their way into my life, it has changed considerably. In just two months, these feline fur-balls have inexplicably won my otherwise cockroach heart.

Initially, I only saw them as mice-murderers. But, as time progressed I started to pay closer attention to their bemusing personalities. And strangely enough, I began to identify shards of myself mirrored by their behavior.

Tomas seems snobbish but really, he just needs time to feel comfortable around new people. He’s quiet for the most part yet, makes his feelings known when needed. Garfield on the other hand, is a playful, over-achieving douche. He gets his kicks from goading others, finishing everything first, and defecating in unimaginable places.

GROSS!!!

Nonetheless, I’m seriously moved whenever these two devils fall asleep together. WHY? Honestly, it reminds me of the meaningful bond my brother and I established after our mom passed-away eight years ago. Also, these two bring out a loving side of me I didn’t even know existed.

Christ; I walked up the street to buy them food – at 8AM! Something I notably wouldn’t do for any of my relatives. However, these guys have become my priorities; they made me realize that the affection I’m so rarely capable of giving can actually be valued and reciprocated in honesty. Whether that be through relentlessly clawing at my feet or the occasionally, comforting “Meow!” Either way, man’s real best friends are pussies.  

Maybe you left because you felt that you’ve outgrown your living conditions, maybe leaving wasn’t even your choice to make.

Either way, as much I loathe the idea, I have to keep moving forward and can only pray that one day you’ll return.

(Lord Garfield (the one missing) in the back; Sir Tomas in the front. 5/19/2018) 

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