We

The "We Drop" 

By Janine Rodrigues 

I do not know why such small words have so much power. Such words Break the glass of romanticism. Reality sinks in the flesh. Reality bothers me more than. It was the “we” last night. I often confuse confidence with arrogance, insecurity with humility. I am navigating an ocean of questions, doubts, and hurtful thoughts. Then I think about my past and I know it is different now, but that is for me.

Give it time to flourish, I think. Be patient. Indulge in the present. However, how can a creature that adds meaning to words, actions, and facts and is so used to indulging and living in the past, who can revive moments from her childhood so vividly, how can she abandon the past? How does one let go of just some parts of? I am afraid of becoming empty and hard. Hard like the shell of a scallop: deprived of emotions, a silenced soul.  Diligent in controlling every single reaction. But aren’t reactions just that? Newton, second law. 

My thoughts are so disturbing I get away from the person I love the most. I retract into my scallop shell:  shiny eyes hiding in the abysm of thoughts. I retract because there is no room for my thoughts and my love. Yes, we all have a past and yet. We have discussed our pasts. I have asked questions. But then a simple “we” triggers my insecurities and all of a sudden I have a thousand more questions floating in my heart. The meaning of the “we”. Imaginary answers floating around my head.  The “we” catapults a storm. The “we” now a symbol of us is a layer from the past. It is a skin, hidden in the continuum of time. Linear matter of what was, when we were idle, still and parallel. All in my head. The “we” meant a house together? Cooking together? Maybe, plans? The Caribbean? Trips together. But that is not important. What really pushes me down, takes me underwater is not knowing my role. My ego is bruised, perhaps. Not knowing what is this piece of life we are living. I never want to be just another one. I am not a woman that feels content with what is common. 

And then I sink deeper: how do I know I am any different? I do not. In my head, I can be different but it does not mean I am not just another one (for you). In my head, confidence crumbles into uncertainty. The present images become sandy, blurry. The present become a razor that makes me bleed internally. I say to myself, only time will tell. And then I have to be kind and patient. And I have to allow my heart to bleed what it can bleed. I am a drop slowly sliding thru you. Like the drop I see on the red flower. It will eventually dry. I need you to mean something. I need “we” to mean more, more than what I know. My love for you urges and it redeems itself in the assumption that it is inimitable, distinctive. Just like the “we” we are separately.