The days are getting longer again. And it is that steady wash of sun over the horizon every morning that reminds me that the day is ultimately coming closer and closer. The day when I will no longer be able to look back and say, I love you, with the same intensity and ferocity. The day when I will finally belong to someone else.
We are such fickle constructs, are we not? That we can propose our love so ardently, so unquestionably to one another and then, years later, merely claim the same of someone else. It is fallacy. And for once I don't feel as alone. We're all liars and schemers, irrevocable daydreamers and we go forward knowing that we are failures to ourselves and to our companions, and once we've failed once, the next failure comes so much more easily. So when did I first fail?
Failure, I feel, is a chain. As the victim of others failure, you often develop a habit of failure yourself. At the hands of others, your morals and ideals can soon deteriorate. I know mine have.
I was what some people might have called an outcast when I was younger. I had few friends in my first school, and I was part of a select group of children at my second. My third school confirmed the trend. My mother became aware that I had an infinity with those considered to be part of a minority. Perhaps this was a sign of things to come.
It was at my second and third schools where the stream of lies began. For the most part the lies were little, white and harmless. They were still product of an overactive imagination rather than deceit. I remember one occasion where one child who I seemed to have developed a particular rivalry with accused me of kicking them. This was not true.
As a result of said 'kicking' I had my shoes confiscated. A peculiar, unnecessary punishment. I was hardly a serial kicker. I was hardly about to go on a kicking spree.
I've never taken too well to false accusations. Such accusations have led to worse behaviour. So it was this accusation that spurred on the following events.
I walked home. During school hours. In tears. Without shoes.
As humorous as it is in retrospect, these are the sort of events that become the catalyst for a life of lies. We're encouraged to lie, because the truth has come at such a cost.
Once more I have condensed facts from my past to try and shed light on my present. I have come here from a past riddled with reasons to lie, rather than to tell the truth. White and harmless, they may have been, but more embarrassing and more complex, they have become. As before, I can only apologise for the actions of my past, and attempt to retrospectively console the history we have shared.
Weeks will continue to pass, and the days will continue to lengthen, whilst my sleeves will continue to shorten. We're running out of time Anushka, and I don't know what to do.