Where does my story belong? How long do I tell it? Will I run out of time, of opportunity, of audience? Just to be an old broken tape. Replaying and replaying. Same story. Different details. Different story. Similar details.
My story is hers. Hers is not mine. There is no end to mine. It’s replayed and replayed. The end looms in the distance. I cannot place it. It’s out of my hands. I grow cold, bitter, neutral, distanced. Days, months, beginning years passed. No end. Nothing. Closure, replaying, closure.
My soul changed. Haunted, molded. It’s outer edges sensitive to touch, to words, to everything. “It’s your story, write it” someone says- live, go, adventure.
As I am, solo in a foreign country with tears in my eyes—overwhelmed with what was part of my story. Not all of it, not the end of it. Just part of it. A part that continues to replay and replay. Closure. Replay.
Inside of each tear holds sadness over what was, not so much what is. Sitting in those rooms—remembering each detail of the story, each sound, each action, each smell. Tears well up for the prison I held, inside and out. No one able to free me. Alone. Tired.
Tears of sadness over his prison—reality or fantasy. I’ll never be sure. Tears of this being others’ stories. So many. Died. Completed.
One word encompassing so much. One word holding closure for some. Closure that will always replay. Attempt. That doesn’t hold closure. Though it does for me. He’s gone.
This is my story and I continue to write it, and rewrite it. I continue because it replays. And replays.
