“What do you want to be when you grow up, R?”
For the first time in those three hours, he put down his pen, shut his notebook and looked at me. This was the first time in three months that he really listened.
“Enough for whom?”
“ For me, doc. For me.
“I want to be enough for those moments when the evening sky is screaming colours and I am dressed in black. I want to be enough for when I do realise that I am born with the fate of the moon; of unappreciated strength. For those times when I’m dancing to the beat of the stars and they choose to turn off the music.
“I want to be enough to be able to play with gasoline over an open flame. To be able to lie down on the highway and gaze at the night sky. I want to be enough for when they render me invisible, as though I am surrounded with mirrors of distorting glass and distorting reality. For when I am stranded in the midst of nowhere, and there is no lighthouse in sight.
“I want to be enough for when blindness coming with love assaults me; reduces my world to one person. For those times when he plays with my heart like a hand grenade. To be able to balance a bloody, broken heart in my palms.
“But most importantly, I want to be enough for myself when they say I’m not enough for them.”