This is an excerpt from an imaginary story I wrote once during uni titled “From Sarah With Pain”,edited to fit a note.
Saying goodbye has never been easy. There came a time in my life when I felt as though avoiding farewell was better than expressing it, but that brought about new meanings for pain. At night, sleep evades me and in the morning thoughts of you haunt me. I feel as though just because I did not say goodbye, then it is still not goodbye. And yet, it has been goodbye for a while. All I had to do was face it and learn to accept it.
I do not know how to start; how do you say goodbye to a person who helped mold you into who you are? How do you say goodbye when your train of thoughts goes down the same track that they showed you? How do you pretend to delete a number from your phone when you know that you’ll never be able to delete it from your heart? How do you say goodbye when you are caught up in the fantasy that it might just not be the final goodbye?
I don’t know where the story began. I am not sure it even did. Sometimes I wonder if you were real or just a character I made up. I remember once you told me, “Nobody can ever know the real me.”
Now I understand what you meant. The real you never existed. You’re so used to wearing masks, playing different roles with different people, that it seems even you can’t recognize yourself. I don’t know why I am destined to be a loser in this game, but I guess this is what I get for being too ambitious in a society that was not ready to accept women like me yet.
So I guess this is it. Today I pack my bag, and leave everything behind. I have it in my hand – the key out of my misery. I feel its texture slowly, then clutch it, willing my soul to scream, “No!” But all that I hear is silence. My soul does not resist. I guess it understands more than I do that I need to do this. It understands why I need to do this.
I guess it’s written that I shall always be a solitary wanderer; always a stranger among my own people; always in search for a place to call home. But is home really a place? Maybe home is not a place, but an idea, fabricated by the restless; an idea that found many people who would romanticize about it, and carry the dream about their trip back home to the graveyard. As for me, my trip back ‘home’ turned out to be a mess, but now I understand what you told me once about how there is always an order in mess. So I guess this is it, I’m saying it now so I could sleep at night. I’m saying it now so I can find some peace. I’m saying it now, because I really mean it. Goodbye.
P.S. What do you think she has in her hands, when she says, “ I have it in my hand – the key out of my misery.”?
Picture from http://sanalogy.net/ who runs Qamrah Photography on Facebook