Conversations with other women.
I’m writing this entry with a heart as heavy as a boulder.
I’ve come to realise that much as I think of myself as a cynical skeptic, or a skeptical cynic, there will always be someone or something that will prove me wrong. Each time, I break down and slowly come to terms with the fact that I have been naive all along. Again.
I hear too many things, and yet I hear nothing at all. Fragments of this, snatches of that… One-sided commentaries. It is true; misery loves company. And company loves superficiality. Suddenly, you find yourself with many friends. Suddenly, you’re sitting in the centre of the circle regaling the company you keep with your stories. Somehow, nobody remembers that two people co-wrote those stories. Everyone asks why the world isn’t fair. Because people make up the world, that’s why.
I sit here, dabbing at invisible wounds because I let my defenses down. Because I trusted. Because I thought someone understood. And cared. And was genuinely happy for me. They sat there, patting my back with one hand while wielding a double-edged blade in the other. That hand distracted with such warmth, so that when the blow finally came, it hurt even more.
How could you?
I remind myself again, that I don’t really want to know anymore. Don’t need to know. If it hurts to hear so much, and yet know nothing at all, I don’t see the point in pursuing. I’ll leave those stab wounds on my back gaping and bleeding to remind myself that I slipped and revealed a little too much. That nobody cared about the long and arduous journey I took to get me where I am today. That all they wanted to do was to believe that someone else’s life was even more screwed up than theirs.
I don’t want to feel so much anymore. If I have to walk around for the rest of my life with both hands covering my ears, I would do it. The knowledge that everything was nothing just isn’t worth it.