I draw up these imaginary conversations with people randomly, lying in the bed or nodding along to a track, and this, sometimes, takes off all the drive in me, positive and negative, aggressive and romantic, sorrowful and blissful, to tell them of certain things, yell at them for being stupid, count to them, as a whisper, the number of times they’ve broken my heart, with timestamps and thumbtacks in maps, or of how much they mean to me, or how they made me smile or made my day… And I get so invested in these imaginary conversations, they be so intense and raw that there’s not a touch of shy or lie to it. Just plain fact and I spend so much of my emotion in these little plays that I hardly have any left for when the real version of them happen and I can almost hear the voice say ‘I’ve already been through this, I’ve already caused them to suffer my sincerity and so I pity them; and truth being told, that wouldn’t be the only reason I’d hold back for I’d know that I’ve already stood vulnerable and held myself so nakedly true with them, I can’t do that again… I’ll come off as needy and also, of sheer boredom for that bully in me and also, I hate reusing phrases and fragments, mine or anybody’s for that matter. So there’s no way people see my real feelings anymore. And I don’t know if it’s good or sad, all I know is that it’s involuntary and when I realize I’m doing it, midway, I’ve always known it in myself that I won’t stop it because it helps me find closure and it helps me face the faces with things I have had, for so long, to say, however imaginary these faces be, and it doesn’t matter if I’m aware that all this is inside my head for it sets me free of being scared or ashamed or coy with the real versions of these characters cuz I’d already admitted my fright and confessed my guilt and kissed away my insecurities!
This may have developed as a defence mechanism in a very young age and it took all this while to realize but know that I know what it does, I’m kinda cool with it.