“But perhaps, after so much talk and fighting, unspoken words do create a silence in whose gentleness the survivors of good and bad can sleep easy.”—Miljenko Jergovic, from “The Saxophonist” in Sarajevo Marlboro, translated by Stela Tomaševic (via the-final-sentence)
It’s not sadness. I am not sad that you are gone. I am scared. In the instant your absence was real, I couldn’t escape myself. I am filled with a fear that I can not be who I want to be. I am filled with the shame of responsibility. I’m the fool on guard to the nothing that takes me over. You won’t be there for me. You won’t save me. I can’t fight off the cruelty of this truth. I’m so scared.
We make up our own rules. That’s the only way we own this thing forever. I want the fullness of the experience to be ours, because we made it that way. If you and I feel the same way about it, [whether that’s the way it really seems now or not does not matter] it’s a truth we know. It’s not up for contention. A memory so sweet can’t be tainted in the same way sharing it [with others] might. I won’t see it from another perspective. Most importantly bitterness can’t creep in. I’m without regret. And that’s the reason I don’t ever talk about it. Only you and I know the secret. It won’t ever be shared. Even if you were to try to tell it; try to throw it away for some reason….you couldn’t really take it from me. I’ve got strong-hold of that moment because it’s part of me. I know it like I know my face when I look in the mirror. I always recognise myself. That’s how I know it’s true; you are a simple fact about me.