I’m less than great at it, pushing people away with great success. My weapon of choice is words.
Although the obsession is nearly healed, on occasion I still look them up, the people no longer in my life.
If someone were to ask what I get from it, I’d try to explain how important it was for me to imprint my memories with some form of external validation that the people I knew actually existed.
Without proof that they’re alive, or that they once lived, everything becomes illusion – all my passions and beliefs. My love.
If I can’t find them I spiral, begin to wonder who I loved, if I loved, or when and where.
It’s why I looked for my father with such insistence. I needed to prove to myself I had one.
Then I needed to prove to myself I didn’t.
I’m less than great at it, but for you, only you – I keep trying.