The string tied below my left rib, where my heart is, branches out and connects me to all the people who have left their indelible marks on my life’s path. But one by one, I hear the snips of a scissor. And like the glint from its cool metallic surface, i see the meaning of these connections reflected back to me. Weakness, it says. Dependence, it mocks. Vulnerable, I whisper. And nothing scares me more than leaving my ribs open, exposing my fragile heart. So my own bare hands will sever these strings, and toss them into fire. And with my own two eyes I will watch as they burn, never to be recovered. And within the cage of my own bones, I will bleed inwardly.
But the significance of the death of these relations is not yet over. The knot i would tie at the end of this string, dangling from my left rib, signifies the end of my self. nothing goes out just as nothing gets in. Now i am as free as any with a clogged heart can be.
So i say, this new me, will sweep you off your feet with a charismatic charm. And intrigue you with my aloofness that likens me, no less, to the cold surface of the blade that ended my being. And my enigma, is a congregation of dead knots you could never untie. Layer upon layer upon layer of dead ends. My cold detachment will let me rationalise like you never could: I will be whoever you wish for me to be; say whatever you need me to say; do whatever you want me to do— I am a mould that will never set.
And at the end of it all, I will hold whoever I wish in the palm of my hands. Because this game of life is a test of wits. And the one who cares least wins.