The Blind Man’s Meal
Pablo Picasso, 1903.
You tried to investigate the sources of my pain. Darling, you mustn’t worry, I knew you did it out of love.
That’s how the typical fairytales end: the knight in shining armor swoops up the damsel in distress. You were desperately trying to rewrite my sorrows into happily ever afters, starring you and me as the main characters.
There was absolutely nothing wrong with that. It was one of the ways you’d display your gentle affections. I was the apple of your eye, and the person’s tears that you tried to dry.
Nothing went unnoticed as you empathized with every single one of my wounds, perhaps a little too much. None of my collisions harmed me; I ceased to fall as you were directly beneath me.
I truly wanted whatever we had to work. No one has never, ever loved me as much as you did at that moment of time. I wondered what you saw in me.
It wasn’t that I was unwilling to try, but it wasn’t right. I really did etch a part of you into my fractured heart. It was incomplete, albeit the best I could do.
There were no pressure from you to establish a future with me, but that was what you fancied. I always knew, I just pretended not to see.
It’s because you were always meant to be someone else’s knight, not mine.