The Monster Who Eats Me

You told me that a drop of water is traveling its course on my face.
In the skies, there were no clouds to pretend it was the rain, so I hide my emotional nakedness under my smile and I tell you a story or two from my crazy journey of life.
I feel proud; as I managed to escape another emotional sudden death with a fairytale of a drop of water; a tale that I tell with prolonging effect to explain my tenderness as I break inside.

However, I still see you in every drop of water that I witness; you’re in every tear, every cloud, every sea wave that drowns me deeply, then brings me back to shore like a newborn. You’re like a water fountain of love; you crown me with purity, and install yourself into me, then drown me yet again.

You smile; like you know everything in my heart; you tell me that you had a bad week, trying to ignore our unspoken conversation and you complement me with your unreachable words.
My biggest problems -as I told you before- that I’m a writer who deals with my life characters the same way I deal with my own novellas’ characters: wishing if only they would chase the roads the same way I do write it on papers. You tell me that I’d never learn to be a God in the world of reality the same way I’m the mighty creator of my stories. You tell me that the world is not logical the way fiction is.
You sigh, sometimes, and you tell me that only in fiction the end comes with sweet love scenes and nothing matters after “The End” is typed. You tell me that we, those nutty authors, forget that if we managed to win our battles against sorrows in the end of our stories, we would only break down the dreams of our characters of eternal life. We write happiness, forgetting that this only opens the doors for sorrows to conquer our reality brutally.
I’ve always heard my name followed with that sad one, or that depressed one. I’ve always been a fan of blues; as it’s the color of my stillness. No one, however, managed to understand that I’m not an agent of sadness as much as I’m a poor insane knight that fights huge windmills; seeing it as giants. I can’t remember how many times I asked people around me:
– isn’t possible that they are really evil giants?
But my answer would always come, with a pity smile, that even if they were giants; people will always see them as harmless windmills.
That’s why I always hated windmills; and I see myself in my nightmares as a silly knight standing in front of a titnical giant: who hasn’t killed me until now so that I’d scream that he exist and everyone believes, ever further, that it’s only a windmill.

That didn’t stop this giant, naturally, from enjoying torturing me and eat small pieces of my sweet dreams, leaving me with a disfigured face that lost its features.
That’s when you told me; to thank what I believe to be the monster who eats me. Without him, I’d never learn to fulfill my face with features using my words and my talent.
Oh, thank you, my monster who eats me. You made me nothing which allowed me to build myself from scratches. I was mistaken; as I built myself bigger eyes than normal and a bigger heart than I should own.
But don’t you worry, my dear monster, for I allowed people to darken my eyes when I see; and to break my heart when I loved.
Thank you, my monster who eats me, for you made me a better human, and a dead one.
You asked me how would I write our next chapter? And I left your answers to the papers.
That is not an ending, I promise you. I can’t have an ending with you. Let me just pray for my monster who eats me. Let me break down my heart as I please.
You told me then that yet another drop of water is taking its way on my face while the skies are cloudless.

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