At the bottom of my custard bowl, where all depression apparently ends. Stained completely white with failures of my misgivings. This far down the rabbit hole, spoonful after spoonful.
Spoonful, tastes of happiness, intoxicating my being like petrichor. We met after my exams, I came to yours and our feet did the walking, twists and turns in your neighbourhood then darkness befell accompanied by first rains, raining on our parade. How wrong could I have been, You lit up like like 5 o’clock on a Friday. I still remember how your smiling eyes infected my frustrations turning them into dance moves as you taught me to sway with the unexpected rains.
Spoonful, I was 18 and completely certain of what I wanted in life, but my experience points had not been earned. I was running round in circles miming convictions to songs my actions could not follow through on. You and me forever right?
Spoonful, you were everything I wanted, you completed me, but I had no experience points, you complete me quickly becomes suffocating. It was you, it was me, it was the fantasy in my head, where we danced and exploded with joy but you know I can’t dance and that was the problem.
Spoonful, it’s not you, it’s been me. Me the problem, the negative in the equation, how could I have explained to you, that I wanted your eyes never to stop dancing like the rains that night and still make it home in time for curfew. That I had forgotten the spell to make time standstill so we could bathe in your glow forever but more so that my time could forever be filled. I always thought you would fill the void, but fleeting moments have served as reminders to what the void needed.
Spoonful, confusion and misplaced responsibility collided, it was inevitable, university was the beaker used to house everything in. Four years attempting to distill the self. Trial and error of hopeful dreams.
Spoonf… Empty bowl, I took it all to the gut, literally. It’s easier to blame you for everything, even the good times but maybe that’s why it took so long to meet myself. I was busy staring at your mirror and looking at your reflection, invested in knowing your every firing neuron and trying to mend the pieces I found broken. However, it seems I was staring at my broken pieces, no wonder the puzzle was incomplete, I kept trying to get your pieces to complete my puzzle.
Deep breathe, haunted white bowls are best filled, away from the reflections of empty sinister skeletons trying to escape the closet.