The Myth of Me...

How do I define her?

She is most unlike me. She is a girl’s girl. She’s brilliantly alight with riddles of the mind, derived from oestrogen-laden whirlwinds but also, she’s not. She beautifully blends in and waltzs through crevices of my own. From where sorrow should flow, she plugs those tears. Drop by drop, win by win.

I don’t know her. I can’t picture her. I don’t know of this life. I can’t fathom what deep emotions feel like. What is this friendship, she and I have? Does it seep through erratically contoured miniatures of us - Puppets forged under the societal clutches of patriarchy? That laugh. It’s infectious. It’s blinding. It’s a being on its own.

Let time flow through us, for we are enigmas of the bold, for we are stories untold, for we are legends foretold ??

The myth of me shines clear within this mirror. This looking glass reads it all; it’s a truth-sayer. The mayhem I create in mind swirls within the reflections of me. It stores my every move, my every glitch, every sigh, every thought—this keeper of secrets. As the myth of me that downed with that last malt-soaked gulp, I could fathom I was just a fleeting nothing in your treasure trove. If I could, I would have engraved, with a chisel of rust and red, the words, “I am you.”

You are my parallel; you keep me pretty but throw shame on my flaws. Is it not easy to envisage a lovely lady who trots about in lace and disdain? Life’s concept of emotion is lost at sea—the deep troughs in relations of old, the bludgeons to the chest, the snark comments in a hall full of sceptics, or the rallies in your name your lover leads if ever the tough get rough. What a seepage this causes in clarity of thought and the myth of you.

You create barriers written in glass, write satires of longing well-wrought, and I? I, unable to touch the person behind, walk away. For what more could I do?

This myth of me is broken too...