I still haven’t opened that drawer. I can’t bear to look. I know I will have to throw all these things away, but I can’t touch them. I can’t see them. I can’t afford to remember. My resolve will weaken, I will want what I can’t have. I will want what isn’t real and I need reality more than I need to eat or to breathe.
I have peeled and pared the poison fruit until there is nothing left save one last bite and I can’t bring myself to take it from the drawer. I can’t resist it’s intoxicating effects and I know it. But it’s there, beating like a heart, calling to me, urging me to just taste one last time.
Instead, I empty every other drawer. Ruthless, I throw everything away without even examining their contents or considering their value. I want my surroundings to be as empty as me. I want nothing to interfere with my ability to move freely. I don’t want any clutter distracting me from my efforts to forget that I ever was me.
I want complexity, internal conflicts, disorganized emotions to be as foreign to me as certainties, simplicity and love were to him.