This is half a story. I’m not sure where the other half got to, or if there ever was another half. I’ve been searching for it, in all the cracks and dusty holes, behind mountains and among the stars. There’s been no finding yet.
I live here alone, and words are my home. The words are my bed, and my warmth, and my light. I trip over them in the morning; I weave them together in the evening. Sometimes I share, but words are delicate things, and many careless tongues have left them broken.
These words are barely five minutes old, and I’m sharing them because I’ve kept them to myself for too long. The sharing should have been sooner, I know. From the first day my destiny was always a half story, never more or less. And here I am, wishing there was another half; and there you are, wishing my half story had been at least closer to three-quarters.
In the early times, when I began to discover words, it seemed like forever that I’d be small and helpless. But soon I walked, and then I ran, and I never stopped running, not really. Once you get to running that fast, stopping is hard. I ran straight through what should’ve stopped me, until I didn’t know where I was.
You tried to bring me back, I know. Words and open hands, but you never could figure what I ran from, and it was still there. I couldn’t say, not when you made it a part of you…I couldn’t turn words into weapons.
So that’s why I ran, and now you know—I could say I blame you, but I don’t. Nobody’s to blame if they can’t see, so the blame’s on me for being invisible. I put on that cloak of words, so finely crafted you could see no flaw, and I ran.
The middle is where I got tired. So very tired I couldn’t even stand under the weight of the words I carried. Some days I’d watch the others from my corner of the world, and wonder how they could drop words so carelessly. They didn’t know my burden, even though they added to it.
The middle is where I got lost, and darkness fell. I ran without moving, and found a place where I could fade into a ghost. And that’s where I am now, alone and safe. But the words are smothering me.
So the middle is where I end. Perhaps you can find the missing half of the story. It might be somewhere in that world I left, where you still are. I’d come back if I could and maybe find it, but it’s too late. There’s nothing for me now, just more running without going anywhere.
I suppose, when you leave unfinished…