Just got back from the domestic airport. I’m now 39 years and 1 hour old.
Like any other birthday, I make sure I give myself a gift. This year I chose to give myself a make-believe. That’s what the trip was all about.
During this trip, I made believe that he loves me. That the hand which held my hand as we walked was mine. That the man who ruffled my hair in jest and teased me by kissing my nape was mine. That the conversations we were having were between two people in love, rather than two friends. I made believe.
And for the two days of the trip, my heart was light. I shut out everything else. No work demands my attention, no family drama demands that I play my role. It was him and me and the four corners of the room I stayed in. There was no world outside of that.
But now, I’m back on my own bed.
My sense of melancholy grew with the distance I was travelling away from that make believe world. And I know it will stay with me for a bit until I find the strength to go back to my usual set of make-believe. The one more familiar, so familiar that it doesn’t feel like make believe anymore. The one where I am too busy with work to care that I don’t have my own person (Grey’s Anatomy fans know what I’m talking about. Remember, Meredith is Cristina’s person?). The one where I’m not bothered that no one belongs to me and I don’t belong to anyone.
No comments:
Post a Comment