What we tell ourselves

“Layne.”

She hears it. She hears her name being called, spoken softly between her ears. She hears it as she falls asleep, as she sits in silence, as she’s alone. It’s almost comforting. Almost. There is some warmth in self preservation.

It echoes through her veins, the voice of everyone before and everyone after. All focused on a present singularity. And Layne would faintly look down, registering what she’s heard. So much can be heard in a syllable; you are fine, I am proud of you, you are loved enough. 

It almost works.


IMG_2193.JPG Sometimes, it feels like our very own headspace is far too compromised. Maybe that’s when we need to learn how to comfort ourselves?

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If We…

I was standing in the rain. The kind of rain that kept pouring and pouring. There was no lightning, no thunder. Just rain. And I could feel it, I could feel everything: the rain drops crashing, the weight of my clothes dripping, the thin layer of rainwater underneath my feet…

And you came out of the building. Red umbrella in hand, slowly turning towards the street and meeting my eye. I could see it – you were taken aback, unsure if you should step forward or walk away. You always walked away. This time I stopped you.

“Do you think we would be better at this if we lived a day in each other’s life?” I shouted over the rain, “You’d live as me, I as you; we could find out what lives in our hearts.” I was going crazy, I knew I was going crazy. Seeing you there was enough to go through every memory, every good memory. “Just for a day, please?” My face was wet and I wasn’t sure if it was just the raindrops. “If we..?”

Your grip on the umbrella tightened. You closed your eyes to think – you always do. But you closed them because you got tired. You got tired of me. And we were standing in the rain, except not really – you and your umbrella, me in the rain. And you walked away again. I couldn’t stop you. “Go home.”


I watched a video of one of my favourite singers today. She sang live and cried towards the end of the song, trying her best to keep singing. It made me wonder how anyone could do that – being strong and vulnerable at once.

Is this closure..?

“What happened to that prose you were writing?” she asked, swirling her coffee with a spoon, legs crossed, eyes prying into my own.

It didn’t register for a moment. It was like I’ve forgotten it ever existed: strings of sentences that knew every feeling Ive had. Strange isnt it? After all the time spent.

“You mean,” I paused, knowing the answer but asking anyway, “the one about her?”

She nodded, her face frowning as if I’ve written anything else in prose. It just seemed so far away from me now – our story.

“I don’t need to write about that anymore,” I said, tilting the tea and feeling the warmth against my lips.

“But the story wouldn’t end…” she trailed, engaging in a thought, “There’d be no closure.”

I sighed, reuniting the cup with its saucer. She didnt understand it. She didnt understand how I could just throw away so much time. I supposed it made no sense to her – knowing how much I have bled into the keyboards, only to leave it all in the archives.

“It’s like this,” I start. “I know I still stop whenever I catch a whiff of Issey Miyake’s Rose, or come across red poppies.” I blinked, an image of you already starting to form in my head. “But that’s it. That’s all they are, just signals for memory.”

You know, there was a time where I couldnt do such a thing. I couldnt reduce you. I couldnt let our ending leave without an end. Cause maybe we’re not ever going to end. After three years, I still find myself staring at my phone whenever you leave a stray comment or liked one of my pictures. I’d sit across you every school reunion and our feet would touch with winces of the resulting present. You see, people don’t end.

“And I think it’s okay that it happens. I mean, I know it’ll never end. And after awhile, it becomes okay.”


IIMG_7905.jpeg‘m convincing myself of this sense of closure. I read about this concept in one of my teacher’s prose piece and felt strongly to respond to it. Maybe this is why I’m having a lot of difficulty in one of my long pieces that was based off someone important to me. After awhile it just sums up to knowing that I have once loved someone so much. And that is it, that’s okay.