The other side of the wall.

As I grew up, all I did was carefully construct walls around me, to protect myself from people. From being too attached. Determined not to give someone that space to come so close that they have the power to hurt me or affect me in anyway. There was always a distance, a determined aloofness, that gave me the cool confidence to carry on with life.

People said I was mean. But all I probably was, was indifferent. Not completely like the other kids. I had learnt very early on in life, what it feels like to mend a broken heart, to nurse a part of your soul. And hence stemmed the fear of getting too emotionally attached to people. What if they leave me like you? Let’s leave them before they can leave me. It sounded fair in my head.

Why let someone see that side of me at all, when all I can do is put on a facade and pretend to be extremely ‘cool’? So, I did. Years passed. School. College. Job.

I never thought I would willingly let anyone cross and peep at the other side of the carefully constructed wall. But, someone did. I let that person peek. As time passed, I finally held my hand out and gave access to enter. A round of slow claps for me ladies and gentlemen, yes?

“Hi there, it is extremely rusty in here. Its been a while someone has ever stepped in. You sure you wanna stay?,” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Umm.. forever? Really?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Take a little piece of my heart, don’t break it. Put it in your closet. Put it in your pocket. Grab it in your fist, but don’t break it.’

“Shh. I won’t,” I heard.

Skeptical, was I? Yes, I was. Why wouldn’t I be? I was not ready to go back to bear another loss. I’m cool, remember? I’m not supposed to cry. I rather crack a sarcastic, witty, awkward one-liner to hide my emotions and act like I’m fine. (Chandler Bing is my long lost brother from another world who understands me more than any of you ever can, but that’s not the point.).

My only point is, I have yet again reached that point in life, when I have to bring all the bricks back together, and start reconstructing that wall. My savior wall. No, trust me, it’s not just another brick in the wall. Pink Floyd was wrong all along. (No, Roger Waters, I don’t roger what you say!).

My wall is a precaution. To live. To be happy. My illusion is any day better than the reality you give me.

PS: For the first time in my life, I did not read and re-read what I wrote before publishing it. I don’t care if there are spelling, punctuation and grammar errors in it. That says a LOT about how much fuck I have stopped giving about life once again, doesn’t it?

PSS: Welcome, the old me. Hi. Fuck you.

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