We had quarreled weeks preceding this eventful one. It had bothered on jealousy, flirtations, cheating, trust, lies, and all what not. In truth, I was already getting tired of the whole pettiness, and just kept mute most of the time, and let you do as you pleased. You were already at least ten months in to your blind relationship, which was meant to mirror ours, in the event that you returned and found out that I had someone else; as you had assumed; perhaps fueled by whomever it was that advised you.
You had screamed down my throat, calling me names including "man-whore", for traveling to get some from a cougar, even though it was an official trip for me, and the person you were suspecting, was at least four hours away by speed train. Gosh, I remember me trying to tell the truth, walking through airport hallways, drifting from one internet network to another.
Not even a frequent reporting of my location was enough. Only if I knew early enough that you suffered an esteem disorder, and an insecurity, I would have walked early on. But I was too blind to see. I was too stupid to read the handwriting on the wall. And this hurts so badly, to know that I didn't walk early enough, to save us both from what we live with today. At least, what I live with still.
We quarreled, when I settled in to my hotel room. We were miles away, but your bile was all over the place. I ignored you through out the trip from then, to be able to focus on my assignment, and grasp the best out of it. I made awesome friends, and networked for the good of what took me there. And on my way back, Air France played "Night We Met" by Lord Huron, and I fell in love with the song, and with the night we met, although there was a sour taste in my mouth. I itched to know the singer, and managed to scribble lines on my boarding pass.
A few days later, I found out it was Lord Huron, and I had occupied myself with "Lonesome Dreams". I should have known, but I was too foolish. Too foolish to realize that I was subconsciously preparing myself for the most hurtful of heartbreaks I would ever go through. At the time, it was love and nostalgia of times I thought we had spent in sheer, undiluted love. But the events that unfolded a few weeks later, would go on to prove that they were but a mere act, a front of the real you.
And so, after I forgave you the very night I found out there was more than meets the eye, I plunged deep in to a pit, clasping Lord Huron and Coldplay with me as the towels which managed the flood that ravaged. I was in love with my idea of you. My idea of a broken girl, who wanted to love again, and needed someone to let them love, and love freely. So, I stayed within arm's length, and let you blossom freely. And it hurt, to know that you wanted bad. You wanted to love a bad boy. And I was never a fit for that profile.
In return, you broke me, and asked to be forgiven in the cruelest form I have ever encountered. But, I already forgave, so you didn't need to push. Though, I lived with the hurt for weeks. And weeks turned in to months. Years have passed, and to say there are no residue of hurt, would be to lie. I would never forget the entire experience. Especially the fool's joyride you took me on.
You made it seem like my crime was to be honest in communication with you. You made it seem like being faithful and truthful was a crime that good boys commit. You were already drunk on bad boys. You badly wanted an abuser. For, you were already used to being abused, it seemed odd that you had no constraints, so you abused me. I found an aquifer of good in you, but there was already too much of bad around, that my efforts were not enough. Ofcourse, you were not all bad. And yeah, your focus on the petty things of life, were the thin lines which eventually did everything in.
If only there was a point where you ever trusted me...
Not when I came confessing my wrongs, for sure. Not when I told you them truths, for you wouldn't have called me "irredeemable". And when you pushed me from pillar to post, and helped me bottle the grief I yearned to let out. Not when I dashed out to eke a living, while you stayed hung on your lover, under my roof.
Sometimes, I doubt if my bouts of mood swings are not really depression. Once, I had this feeling throbbing in my head, to just walk on the expressway during rush hour, with my eyes closed. I arranged to meet a physician, and I backed out for fear. Maybe I really should go look me up. And, here I am; leashed to songs. Songs which are now place markers to a memory, to a place, to an event, to an argument, to a time we shared a smile, to a time when I thought of leaving or staying, to a time when all was lost, and I was hopeless on how to gather my shattered pieces. And even though it was said that men don't cry, boy, I knew how to cry myself sore, and cry myself empty. Maybe I really did empty everything that remained a fibre in that ailing heart of mine. Maybe I cried out every capacity to love, and love freely.
Today, I don't listen to those songs freely. For, I remain yoked to the burden they carry with my memory. But maybe one day, I'll be back again. Back to that place where I can love again freely. That place where I can give myself up and not be wary of falling.
My demons are here again, and maybe it's time I face them boldly. So, I am learning to walk again. To go past the fear, and walk the beaches of Mombasa again. Just like I have cooked your favorite meal over and over, it no longer have any undertone to it.
You know, we all heal differently. And I yearn, to be friends with you again. Friends, not because I want to get back with you again, but because I want the forgiveness to be complete. It wasn't enough that we met at the cinema, and said "hi" in a tensed manner. It's not enough that you liked my instagram pictures, and told your friend to "say me hi to him".
I also yearn, to move on completely!
