I was driving home today when my eyes caught sight of that woman in the taxi driving next to me. She was probably in her 40s, she was sitting alone in the back seat gazing at empty space through the window and looking so sad, and eventually a tear rolled on her cheek followed by a few. I instantly looked away so that she wouldn’t catch me looking at her and feel worse that a stranger was feeling sorry for her.
Truth is, I was not just feeling sorry for her, I felt like she was crying my tears, tears I have cried millions of times when I sat in the back seat of a car and surrendered to my sadness, or when I just collapsed while driving alone in my car. I completely understand how it’s easier to trust perfect strangers with seeing a glimpse of my sadness rather than someone who knows me. I would not have to wipe my tears and smile before a stranger pretending that I am ok simply because soon enough the car carrying him/her would have driven far away.
But somehow tears feel like a luxury… I no longer want to admit I am that hurt, I no longer care if I cry them out or lock them in… it is all the same really, and at the end of the day the best and fastest way to be okay is to pretend it until it’s real… not the healthiest way, but the choice itself is a luxury.
I sit down and I try to write it in words, but words can’t get out of me, the real words that tell how it feels; they are locked where I do not want to go… I do not want to test my strength, and neither do I want to realize what lies beneath it all… who am I kidding, I know what’s there, but knowing is not like seeing, facing, realizing, or accepting… there is a percent of doubt in knowing, and it’s all I need to hold on to for now… writing it will be how I confront it, and I am not sure I can do that, yet.
“Je t’inventerai des mots insensés, que tu comprendras”
And this line gets to me every single time…
This may not make much sense, but it does… very few people get it and that should be enough… but yet it’s not…