Or maybe we should forget it all. Is it worth it? That
is the question which is going to be left on us, with all of the heaviness
which it bears. It will hold on to our necks in a manner of trying to bring us
down, but we will be smiling, however, smiling, like it could never happen, like
we were more than just rugs, meaningless frames for the hanging questions.
I am not
depressed. I just forgot to pick up a part of my soul from the doctor’s waiting
room. No one noticed. It keeps hanging there as a coat, or a used umbrella, too
old, too scarved for anyone to be tempted to take it with them. It stays still,
an anonymous passenger of an eternal carriage, a silent witness of your tears,
your dreams, your bruises. I am not getting it back anymore. Let me leave it
there, without a trace, with its’ mouth shut in a silent protest. Let me leave
it next to you. To listen to your breathe.
Just like I didn’t
notice the piece of the moon, on my way back home. If there is any home, for a
soul such fragmented. Sometimes I can see the pieces of souls of others. They
pass me on the street, trying to hold my shoulder, desperately glaring for more
than just an elusive attention. I walk away. I need to follow the steps of the
crowd. Such treading does not allow you to stop, neither to move forward. You
can only keep treading, path by path, step by step. Behind the crowd. I always
recognized these lost bits of human souls, with the rest of a rope on their
necks. Seemingly invisible, they stuck their nails in your chest, hungry for
life. I often think about my forgotten piece of soul. What is one day it gets
bored of sitting there, in a waiting room, and just like all of these pathetic
beings desires to walk out on the street. Maybe it will miss something, and
decide to give it a chase. Without a head, my poor piece of soul, will be
chasing the forgotten, the forgiven, the buried. Miserable creature of mine,
will never find what it is looking for, since it has no eyes to see, no heart
to lead it. It will pursue the echoes of my past desires, the tears which has
already fallen, the dreams which never dared to be dreamed. Maybe one day it
will come to you. But you will never know if it is here, a piece of invisible
fabric left in the waiting room to never be reclaimed.
Sometimes I
think about this poor piece of soul of mine. But I shall not engage in a
search. I need to keep treading the path, path to path, step to step. I need to
move forward with the crowd and carry the unanswered question on my neck. There
is nothing left on me, but keep treading.
