Composure

Tomorrow is a long road, and apparently, it never ends. Have I ever thought about that? I don’t think so. Today is when you are most aware of tomorrow.  That’s when the cloaked man with the scythe will poke my spine and say, “I told you.” I will then hit him in his skeletal face. He is not my father; neither am I his daughter or disciple. I was just obsessed with him, and he exploited it – love and hate, you know.

There is always someone that points his finger when you have messed something up. In the moment of a disaster, you tend to shun the helpers and other kind-hearted creatures whose hands are always cleaner than yours.

When unaware that you need restraint, you’re most naïve and forgetful. Sometimes, for a good reason, a good reason that unfolds to be an array of sentimentalities, but not always appropriate for exposure.

What about the fact that writing is all about exposure? F. said that once. I bumped into him the other week, and I hated how I showered him with unpleasantness, like a patient who hasn’t seen her therapist in a year. Some things better remain untold, even in moments of desperation.

It’s only just now that I have found composure. There is a soothing sound in the word that relaxes me. There are words, which aren’t worth being said out loud, especially when they are in dispute and uncertain. There beauty in silence; silence is gold – it is deep running water that will never show on the surface, as it has no reason to taint the world.

Exposure and composure have an affair, and composure will impregnate exposure with metaphors that I will type down now while looking composure in the eye. My lips will remain sealed.

And maybe my obsession with the man carrying the hourglass will diminish, and all these could-have-beens will disappear for good.

Today is all that matters. If only I could think more like that.

It shouldn’t be that hard.

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