I like having a conversation with myself; telling inside jokes to one another. It’s one of the things that keeps me sane.
In the morning when the sky is still young and courageous. Wearing shorts and a tank-top, holding a glass full of liquid of innocence. “What’s our plan today?” I ask.
“Why ask?“ My inner-self counters. “We could be doing something less exciting and chilling. Maybe something inspiring or thrilling and be as stupid as we can. I don’t know. Let’s figure it out now.” She replies beaming.
And I did everything out of instinct, not having a clue of anything and simply getting lost. Sometimes I was stumbled on the way, maybe got me a scratch or two but at the end of it, I’ve never felt more amazing than I did right then.
In the middle of the day when the sun is–at the highest–mature and poised. Leaving a bold mark the size full of lips on the mug’s rim. It’s filled with steaming awakening dark brew. “Let’s see,” I start. “I have to leave before eight, can’t afford to be late. Again. Today, you need to behave.”
My inner-self groans. Something I roll my eyes at because she knows me all too well. She is the part in me that I preserve the way she is. Untouched. She balances every impaired part of me.
Sometimes I was forced to participate in her ever kind of adventures. And they did not always end beautifully. She’s a disaster. Always doing everything disorderly—anything at all, is done like a three year old girl trying to eat cake by herself. A mess. But my kind of scenes were probably boresome to her. Each time she would talk me out of it saying, “It’s not what you want!” “Leave!” “You deserve better” and we ended up not talking to one another. I needed space.
I didn’t listen to my inner-self. It was heart-wrenching and draining at most knowing she probably was right. Again. But I know she felt just as tired as I was. She is me after all.
At the end of the day when moon is at peak. Mirroring the way the sun shines—not as bright and blinding. More like pastel and wise. Sporting on pyjamas; sitting on the couch bundled up with cushions in front of television. Sipping the heartwarming potion of happiness. Coming to realisation, we’re wounded, if our battle scars are any indication. But we survived, didn’t we? She and I are whole. She is me and I’m that part of her that will do things—out of my boundaries; out of my ever shaped logics—to keep her sanity.