Ariadne

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
           – Maya Angelou

After a bout of heavy intake of intoxicating beverages and substances
I look forward to the morning after
I like how the volume dial of the whole world is turned down at a minimum
How the voice of my demons falter
And the shouts of obscenities are lost in translation
I like how my mind warps into intricate threads
How last night’s memories come back to me albeit in a haze
And where fact and fiction are helplessly entangled in my head

To enjoy these privileges is to become free. Yet this freedom, it seems, has a shadow that most of us fail or dare not see.
I am free that is why I am lost.
Across the fibers of memory tangled with bittersweet nostalgia and regret
There is this pair of itchy hands tugging threads off her favorite dress.
Slowly, very slowly, unraveling the stitches that constitute our heads
Revealing patterns locked away in between the seams of her dress.

It is the reveal that sways us to our core.
We are only human furnished with indecision and insecurities.
We hope that our quirks go unnoticed as we are sewn in the billion fold of other threads with idiosyncrasies more bizarre than the next.
Yet some of us risk to be completely cut open.
I dare pull on the thread and come naked to the highest bidder.
I go down at the prick of the poisoned needle yet contemplate on the strength to hold on to it in the first place.
And I dare enter the labyrinth of our hearts and minds hoping to find the thread that was always mine but never meant.

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