02 Feb

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I used to be just one.

I was here looking out at you.

I was here grabbing this and examining that.

I was here feeling life within.

I was here reaching out and finding you. 


Then I realised you were viewing me, and I split.

Now I was two.

A house divided.

I was still looking out at you.

I was still feeling life within.

I was still here reaching out and finding you.

But I was distracted.

Because now there was another living inside me. 

It imagined how I appear to you.

No longer merely subject, I became object too.

I was me, and I was also who I thought you saw.

I was both the observer and the observed. 


Gradually the subject has faded, and the object has taken centre stage.

I am now mainly what you think I am.

I am now mainly what you think you see.

I have lost me.

The subject of my story has become a detail of yours.

I am mostly the observed.

I am looking to you to tell me what I think of myself.

I am waiting for you to tell me what to do next.

I am waiting for you to write the next chapter of my life.

I am waiting for you to shape my body to your liking.

I no longer grab anything. I have stopped my enquiries.

I no longer put my hand up in class. I no longer speak up at work.

I no longer reach out my hand, but wait for you to take mine instead.

I live to please you.


And yet…

There is a niggling doubt, a vague memory, a sense of something different from long ago.

That keeps me from being the perfect object.

That keeps me failing, so I remember there was once a subject in my story.

And she is determined to re-enter the fray.

And write a different ending.


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