I started out without “I”. It was “we”; when we lost “we” “I” became, but “we” wasn’t forgotten. I found “we” still existed when “I” felt the need to become obsolete – useless. I started out as “we”.
“We” was expendable to me. It never described me or defined me. It was a concept that I could toss around in the air, if I dropped it then it didn’t matter, I could pick it up again. I was always I, with “we” stuck in the middle somewhere. It didn’t matter where, just as long as it was there…somewhere.
We used to have conversations – we used to talk. That changed. You separated us. You needed to be free, you said. You said, “I need to be free.” I wondered when I need to be free became “I” needs to be free.
Exploration. Adventure. I craved those words, their definitions, their synonyms – I craved them. Freedom wasn’t liberation to me, it was air. The kind that made branches twist and turn, and ripped flowers from the ground. When I said I needed freedom, I said “I need to be free,” but I meant “I” needs to be free.
Where do I stand? Where does “I”? I told her, I said, “go.” I said, “go.” And I said it straight, and I said it strong, and I lied through my teeth when I said, “go.” She went. “Freedom,” she said, “freedom,” and I said, “go.” She went.
I wasn’t meant to stay forever; I had always meant to come back, but somewhere I lost track of time. What I saw amazed me, the life I had tasted – I could breathe, and it burned. I don’t know when I decided to stay, but I did. He said, “go,” and I went. I’d always meant to go back, but I didn’t know how to anymore.
“How are you?” It’s been so long.
“Happy.” I decided to stay.
“Happy?” You’ve forgotten “we.”
“Happy.” “We” was expendable.
“I’m glad for you.” I was expendable, you mean?
“Thanks.” You were expendable.
“You’re welcome.” I know.
“Well, I’ll see ya around.” I’m sorry.
“…” I know.
When I watch you go I feel it slipping away, I feel it…and then I don’t. It’s not tangible anymore, I can’t grasp it, or hold it, or clutch it. Instead I claw at it, I scream at it, I scratch and gnaw and clamber after it. “We” is gone.
Where are you? I often wonder. Is it good there? Is it home there? Where are you, Love? I know you’re not home, but I’ll be here, waiting, waiting, waiting. And watching as you wander through paradise and I sit outside, I realize that I loved you…but you, you’re in paradise.
Someday, someday I’ll go back. Someday this will become boring and I’ll go back. I’ll go back home. This place is big, but it’ll get boring and then I’ll go home. Because home isn’t lonely, it isn’t wide and huge and wonderful. It isn’t, but it is. Someday I’ll go back there…someday, perhaps.
“You’re back?” I loved you, did you know?
“Home is home.” …
“Right.” You can’t pick me back up again.
“I’d always meant to come back.” No?
“How was it?” I lost it.
“Paradise.” So did I.
“Yeah.” You won’t find it again, you lost it in paradise.
“Yeah.” I’ll find it at home.
“I’ll see ya around, then.” Not in me. I loved you, you know, but you won’t find it in me.
“Yeah, see you.” Oh.