scene 46: the actress hasn't learned the lines you'd like to hear.
It's like writing a poem on water.
You know it's there, even if you can't see it. You know it's your hand spelling out the words, creating the silvery ripples. You know you're tracing your art, even if nature quickly carries it away.
No one else knows it's there, but that's all right, because you do. And for now, that's enough. Maybe one day it won't be, but you'll face it when the time comes.
Maybe the time has come. Maybe it hasn't. But I'm facing it.
There are some days when I feel...nothing. Those are the most frequent days. Days when I can stare out the window for hours before I finally realize I've stared at nothing.
There are some days when I know that everything is the way it's supposed to be. And no matter what, I'm happy that things are the way they are. That things are right.
Then there are the days when I don't even want to look at the window, when all I can think is that it wasn't right, that it shouldn't have been like this, why is it like this? You can't do that to someone. You can't tell them something like that and then just leave without saying anything, without saying goodbye. I might be beyond tears, but on those days, I'm not beyond screaming, beyond the awful need to break the silence. It's cowardly to not confront what it is that bothers you. I hate this. I hate how this makes me a coward. I hate not having a choice. I hate how much I hate him for being a coward, for not giving me the chance to react, to choose.
And when all the anger leaves me, burying itself a little deeper, I notice it a little less. And more days pass, and the anger is ignored completely, till it turns more and more into something else. It'll be entirely empty one day. Maybe I will be, too.
Or maybe it isn't emptiness. Maybe it's fullness from a different point of view...
All I have is a picture.
And I still can't even say his name.
You know it's there, even if you can't see it. You know it's your hand spelling out the words, creating the silvery ripples. You know you're tracing your art, even if nature quickly carries it away.
No one else knows it's there, but that's all right, because you do. And for now, that's enough. Maybe one day it won't be, but you'll face it when the time comes.
Maybe the time has come. Maybe it hasn't. But I'm facing it.
There are some days when I feel...nothing. Those are the most frequent days. Days when I can stare out the window for hours before I finally realize I've stared at nothing.
There are some days when I know that everything is the way it's supposed to be. And no matter what, I'm happy that things are the way they are. That things are right.
Then there are the days when I don't even want to look at the window, when all I can think is that it wasn't right, that it shouldn't have been like this, why is it like this? You can't do that to someone. You can't tell them something like that and then just leave without saying anything, without saying goodbye. I might be beyond tears, but on those days, I'm not beyond screaming, beyond the awful need to break the silence. It's cowardly to not confront what it is that bothers you. I hate this. I hate how this makes me a coward. I hate not having a choice. I hate how much I hate him for being a coward, for not giving me the chance to react, to choose.
And when all the anger leaves me, burying itself a little deeper, I notice it a little less. And more days pass, and the anger is ignored completely, till it turns more and more into something else. It'll be entirely empty one day. Maybe I will be, too.
Or maybe it isn't emptiness. Maybe it's fullness from a different point of view...
All I have is a picture.
And I still can't even say his name.