Writer: Nagla Aly
Editor: Khaled Mohamed
Somehow, someway (it’s not that I intend to, I promise), my mind wanders to all the times I left, thinking whether I should have left or not. I used to pack my therapist’s chair, my office and leave. I used to pack whatever is left of ink, paper, love and leave. I leave with my mind made up that this is not my place, I don’t belong here, I gave it my all but the payment wasn’t what I expected. But it comes to me, at night. When I’ve locked the apartment’s doors 3 times, checked twice that everything is ready for tomorrow, it comes whispering to me;
‘maybe you shouldn’t have left..’
‘maybe this wasn’t the final chapter’
‘maybe there was some left-over ink’
It corners me in my 1.5 meter bed, makes me put my head in the pillow, hold my heart, and clutch my quilt in fear that I might break down and run back to where it all started. It makes me wonder how the mind’s internal war can be that much bigger than whatever war it has with the heart. It sickens me to the point that the paper is no longer clear, the ink is running through the tips of my fingers and the love I kept for my one-on-one conversations with the mirror is no longer enough.
I wish I was mindless, maybe then, just maybe, I wouldn’t lock the door 3 times, I wouldn’t check everything twice, and maybe then it wouldn’t come to me at night, whispering.
