I saw someone post a familiar quote on my Instagram feed today. I asked her where she got it from. She said she couldn’t remember where she had seen it, but that the words had struck her very hard. Reading those very personal words again struck me hard too. If even she couldn’t forget them, how could I?
You had said those words to me a long time ago.
If you haven’t been intimately privy to my recent struggles, you have no right to leave those comments on my blog. If you really cared, you’d know better than to ask those questions. Don’t presume you know what you know simply because of the things I post. You may or may not know that Life is a vicious cycle that goes back and forth. Today I rule the world, but at night, I have to nurse my wounds.
I removed your comment and my reply from my blog, Long-time Silent Reader, because you could have been genuinely concerned and didn’t realize how insensitive you were, saying those things.
If you knew of the things I’ve been doing outside of my blogs, you will see that I have been actively trying to “give up and move on”. However, I admit I am holding myself back from greater things, but that’s only because I’m still trying to reclaim my Self that I seem to have lost. But, as you’ve observed, “he already has someone else now”, so what is the problem again?
One day, perhaps, you will see me posting happy blog entries about my newfound happiness, or sharing photos of every meal I have with my new man, of every thing he has bought for me, of every time he holds my hand in bed, and maybe, even of every time he fucks me, but till then, whenever I get emotional, or whenever I’m feeling the need to rant, I shall post whatever I want to share on my blogs, because that’s how I must deal with it.
Thank you for caring enough to comment, though. Thank you.
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
- Derek Walcott
“Why didn’t you ever write about what happened?”
“Because it was too painful to relive.”
“But it’s been a while.”
“It still hurts like mad.”
“Maybe writing about it will help you heal faster, like Nick Carraway did in The Great Gatsby, since writing has always brought you solace.”
“Perhaps I’m waiting for the day when I don’t have to write at all.”
That brilliant moment just before you fall asleep where you have a sudden creative streak and an idea starts forming in your head. You can see it taking shape, slowly but surely, and you know it will be beautiful. You will love it because it was created when you were most relaxed, most unguarded—isn’t that when we all fall head over heels?
Then reality creeps in and builds obstacles in your way, like little pebbles that cause you to trip over and burn the skin off your knees. As you bend over to dust the soil off, that moment is gone. You can only watch, helplessly, as the idea dies a slow death in your mind. The idea bleeds into tears, which soak your pillow wet under your cheek.
The desire is lost, and so is sleep.
The hand that held her phone was trembling as she read the text messages on her screen. She was crying. She was remembering. I know, because I do that too.
I looked down at the top of her head, imagining myself stooping down and giving her a hug, or any kind of comfort. That was as much as I could do, or I could risk embarrassing her, and potentially myself, by doing something like that in public. She swiped her tears away with her other hand, and wiped them on her jeans, smudging her face and staining her clothes with mascara.
A short while later, when the tears on her face had dried and her shoulders stopped heaving with sobs, she took a deep breath and looked up, and realized that I had been staring. She didn’t look away, so I smiled, hoping she would understand that I understood. That I know, because I did that too, once, at a place with faces even more foreign than these ones.
She smiled awkwardly, then stood up because it was her stop next. It was my stop too. When we both stepped out onto the platform, I handed her my pack of tissues and squeezed her hand when she reached out for it. She looked up from her hand into my eyes, and her tears fell again, as if on cue. This time, she pushed her small frame onto mine and hugged me tightly, and didn’t hold back. I put down my bag and stood there with her.
I don’t know how long we stood there, two strangers, friends for that fleeting moment, sharing pain, exchanging comfort, not uttering a single word. When she was done, we both looked at the wet gray smudges she had left on my left shoulder. I frowned at her and she giggled. She knew that I would understand. That I know, because I was once her too.