The Fifteenth Draft
I feel like he wasn’t even real. That’s how distant and faint the memory of him is”
– 2:39 am via whatsapp
First days pass, now weeks and months as fast as these days marked on my hearts calendar. No one but me subconsciously keeping track. I’ve never felt so hollow and transparent as I do these days. My heart on my sleeve and a big smile on my face, with jokes that leave my mouth in loud whispers as I distract everyone with humor and sarcasm. No one suspicious because I sit and fake a smile as I giggle loudly unlike him; Who’d I remembered had told me back in December he was incapable of doing.
As I sit and soak in my sadness, I realize I am no longer inspired. Now with fifteen unfinished drafts. Some titled with a piece written , others with pieces left untitled. I await to finish, conclude and move on from this series, and in my real life. But so it seems these emotions have tangled me in a string of knots ones representative of inquires left open ended and undone. As I piece together these last final pieces in the series.
With all this time now elapsed I mix emotions, reasoning and details. All which I promised myself I’d make every effort to preserve with the intention of truthfully and honestly writing this book. One which many would argue I shouldn’t even write because you don’t deserve this. These pieces of me written down and exposed. None, really about you, but about me and what I feel, think and need.