What if it all is an illusion? What if everything is a figment of my imagination, a precarious card house, trembling lest a gust of wind should come and blow it all away? Maybe none of it actually does exist. Maybe its just words that I scrabble to string together to convince myself that the sequence that forms is what you meant them to form. Maybe I read too much into things; things that don't exist, things that never will exist.
I could forge ahead and pretend to see it all, to gather together strands and weave them together to form a shimmering patchwork. I could run with all my might, keeping aside all uncertainties of the dirt road. I could not bother about slipping and sliding in the mud strewn all over the path. I could pretend to be confident. And then fall flat on my face.
Something keeps telling me that it’s not only me who sees it, that you see it too, except you cover it clumsily with half hearted lies and cruel euphemisms. That you are too careful, too unsure and so unwilling to risk something important to you. That you're too used to being wary to actually jeopardize things. As for me, I'm just afraid. Maybe because you lie too often.