Sometimes I wonder. I wonder what he had been doing in those six months.
But then I shudder. I want to know, but I know that I don’t want to know.
I can imagine – I shouldn’t imagine.
I can think back to that time, to those six months,
and I mean six months is a pretty long time,
and I don’t remember anything.
What have I been doing? what have I been up to?
what have I been thinking?
All I know is that I worked. I worked and I cried.
And I listened to those songs, to those sad songs.
I would make a habit of crying on my way to work,
when the sun was rising and I would pass by a pond
with little ducks.
Sometimes I would even sit for a while and watch them.
They grew with the weeks.
And I would walk back at sunrise, crying again,
cause the sad songs made me do so.
I can still listen to them today – and they still make my heart break again.
It’s as if that time had no purpose, no meaning.
As if it didn’t exist.
Except for when I went away, that time had a purpose.
I had to leave completely – I had to put as much distance between him and me as I could.
But still –
I still find it weird.
I’ve always been doing things, I’ve always been planning and working towards something.
For six months I did do all of that, but I did it all wrong.
Cause when I think back, I didn’t do anything productive, anything inspiring.
Not to me.
Not to others.
I was just an empty shell.
So empty, that when I look back at myself at that time
I don’t remember a person
I don’t remember what I did
I almost don’t remember a thing.
Because nothing mattered
but the sadness in my heart.