carte blanche

“He asked me if I had lost my mind and, walking away, I said: ‘your blindness doesn’t mean that something doesn’t exist. Just because your eyes turn away and not towards it doesn’t give you the right to erase someone else, or something else’. I have always been one for the pompous endings, for the irreverent comments that finish the conversation when there is nothing else to say. Or the monologue. I say ‘however, when you stop listening, that does cancel out everything else. You’re multiplying by zero. That’s when it does something’ and he stares at me like, ‘seriously, have you gone mad?’

I have not, it turns out. If the challenge is not there, I create it. He looks at me with hurtful eyes, sorrow deep in the lines of his facial expression that’s frowning at me. I can’t explain to him why I am making things difficult or why there’s bitterness instead of sweetness.

So I turn back around, stop walking away, and try. And try again, but it’s not there, and I can’t force myself to be who I want to be because who I am is so intricately burrowed into me that I’m afraid I kind of can’t change. ‘I feel like you erased me by making me part of you’, I try and explain. ‘Like you added my identity onto yours and I just couldn’t tell who I was. I was screaming for a way out, but you couldn’t hear it until I wasn’t attached anymore.’

Like a wave swallowing the sand, I guess. Wave, sand, beach, surf, all one, the same. Could he hear how hypocritical I sounded?

‘I’m sorry I spilled black ink all over your carte blanche. This is why I have to go.’ There it is, isn’t it? My fault, my error, my creation, my doing. Me me me. He looked as if he wanted to hate me for making such a me comment, but also as if he was just tired, but also like as the perfect defiance of me he would never ever walk away. So I had to. So I did.”

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