The absence of clarity over what life I’m fighting for is the unspoken truth and composition I can’t bring myself to tell. Is that because I long for the life I left behind? Or because I can’t work out what is missing in the first place? Pieces inside me fabricated by the unforgotten and best friends with distraction. The cohesion of them breaks into pieces I can no longer recognise and feelings I can no longer describe. That is the nature of endings, it seems. They never truly end, do they? When all the missing pieces of your life are found, put together with glue of memory and reason, there are more pieces to be found. But that’s the problem, missing pieces aren’t found, they’re replaced. Synaptic connections clinging together the pieces that remain, trying to make up for something that is no longer there. It physically hurts, like arrows being fired through you, and eventually, you stop thinking about the theorem, and wonder how only something that isn’t there can hurt so much. It’s like stepping back into a room you have such fond memories of, one you haven’t seen in a long time, but still cause the same inclination of unintentional tears. Love could be highlighted as a distraction, a miscarriage of heartbreak that I deny myself to feel. A kaleidoscope of increasing intensity as the years tremble on and the displacement of fact become the lies we continue to tell ourselves. I find myself walking around like a wounded soldier, out of my mind in a nightmare, wishing it was over. That feeling when the air is cold and tight, stealing my ability to say a word, stumbling in the twilight. I misplace the thoughts that are supposed to give me reason, lost somewhere between the mind and insanity, curious enough to know what was at risk.
I cling to music, to poems, to quotes, to writing, to art because I desperately do not want to be alone, fearing the destruction of my own thoughts. I want to know I’m not losing what makes me who I am, and for someone to explain the ability I fail to put into words. Why was that so difficult?
I remember that’s what someone once told me, telling me to remember where my home was the day I left it, and that there is so much more to me than these words I transcribe. It’s the simplicity in innocent words like these that eludes me and forever remains a harmonious conception of memory. I could say words will always be incomplete. They take a fraction of a second to vocalise, yet with the right ones, they take a lifetime to forget. They transpire us, hurt us, build us up and make us who we are. But it’s the bittersweet devotion of the words that are left unsaid, that incite us the most. There are so many broken words and pieces that no longer seem to make sense. Nevertheless they are hidden from the world, regardless of the transparency they would cause. But apologies don’t turn back time and memories don’t make us feel any less.
I find myself stuck in a time warp of my own unforsaken mentalities, between who I am, who I want to be and who I should be. I defy myself by the pieces I lose rather than the ones I cherish and are lucky enough to love. The fact that the word lovesick exists, that the simple absence of a person or place can make me physically ill, as I hold onto the evermore meaning of hope, says a great deal about the terrible power of the human heart. It was a lesson I learnt very early on, and one I will leave too late.
These soft spoken words lay heavy with truth as I am tainted by the veil of time and bound by fate. It’s these altercations with the soul and these omitted pieces that hold everything I never thought I could ever deserve. I hold onto the very fallacy of the thought as I cling to it with as much importance as the air I breathe. Nevertheless I forget that hearts aren’t handcuffs and people aren’t prisons. When it’s time for me to leave, I leave, remaining distant in my closure and denying the unfinished pieces I leave behind. Could it be any harder than that? Truthfully, yes. Because I am still so arduously in love when I do, wishing for the final journey to be idyllic and clear some, but it never is. It becomes a tale I will never tell, like the wind crying of forgotten days or the evening sun lingering. I am young, and have caught the very splendour of life, but I can’t wear my heart like a banner unfolded, for the sake of my own understanding.
I’ve moved around so much, that I’m beginning to lose the meaning and defiance of home. So many books have been opened, while very few have been closed, from the lack of my own courage if nothing else. My life has become pieces and crevices’ that I glue together with voices of reason and ambition. Patchwork of representation as I take the next steps towards an unknown journey.
Charlotte is a First Year English Literature and History student at Northumbria University and writer of Missing Pieces. While enjoying delving into the workings of creative writing, she is also an avid reader of like-minded 20th Century authors such as Ernest Hemingway, Sylvia Plath and F.Scott Fitzgerald. Alongside her studies, Charlotte uniquely writes and captures the unspoken thoughts of everyday life, bringing it to light with a personal touch.