What you lose in the breaking,
and the leaving, and in the tearing
up of things is not the weight
of the burden of a flailing we,
unravelling as it were,
beneath the weight of the angst
the uncertainty of ambivalent inquiry weaves
in its wake.
What you gain is not peace,
or freedom, or the sense of soaring free;
a relief craved like cold water
on a blistering summer day –
a breath drawn deep, air gulped
a sigh of resignation
at the certainty of leaving.
What you leave in the un-cleaving,
is a good riddance tossed like a curse
into the wind, the silhouette of a fading back
the only linger of a memory
quickly fading into a transient thought
What you lose is the endearing quality
of a sometimes awkward silence,
of knowing, and being known
and of safely being-
and the joy and the passion
deeply feeling things brings.
What you learn, when in the lingering
haunting sound of silence you reflect,
is that what you lose is the joy of eyes
lit by quotidian things –
is laughter, and living and loving;
and hope for hoping against hope
for a thousand smiling summers.
When the clock chimed in the New Year, I was cuddled up next to the girlfriend at the time. I had my feet on a foot stool, was sat in a couch in front of the television and was cradling her head as it lay on my chest, whilst we mused about the new year, and all the wonderful, beautiful things we hoped it would bring us. I had flown nearly 5000 miles to make this moment, and in the heat of the moment, life couldn’t have felt better. There was me, the one woman in the world I loved, and a bright and shining future ahead of us. If ever there was a fairy tale moment in my life, that was it.
Ten months down the road, that fairy tale is no more – obliterated by time, distance and the seemingly insurmountable gulf that a difference of faith can engender. It would take me six full months, from that fateful day in April when it all went south, before I would be able to come to terms with that loss, but I like to imagine bar the odd memory induced twinge, I have well and truly moved on.
I still hold out hope for a fairy tale ending – frog meets Cinderella, and whether in an instant or over time, the frog morphs into a Prince and Cinderella gets her heritage back.
So here’s to hope, for a fairy tale ending.. Whenever (If ever) that is…
I spent the whole week – and some – agonising over the pros and the cons of one last punt, asking EJ if we were done for good. It didn’t help that she took nearly a full day to reply my initial email. Yesterday, I finally worked up the nerve to make the phone call. It still took me six tries, before I allowed the phone ring through.
We talked – whilst she was out shopping with a friend. The one thing that comes out of it all is that at best, we will be acquaintances, the odd phone call every so often, the odd email and simple safe gifts for birthdays if they are remembered. Oddly enough, I never got to ask her for a black and white response as to if we were done for good. She did seem very eager to get me back into the dating business. Guess by default, we are done, and yours truly has to wise up to that and move on, difficult as it might be.. 😦
… it will always be difficult, but if you cry like this every time, you will die of heartbreak. Just know, that it is enough sometimes to know that it is difficult.
Chris Abani @ TED 2008
Right now I miss having a male role model I can bare my heart out to.
The sadness in her eyes breaks me,
Willing me to reach across the breach of hurt;
To hold her hand and tell her it was all a dream.
The painful lustre in her eyes,
As they glistened in the candle light that night
Would draw me into granting a reprieve that is not mine.
She seeks a place to leave her wish.
Where, at the feet of a gentle wizened priest,
She can be relieved of a flagrant breach, a love once spurned.
There is no forgiveness I can give;
No blessings in my hand that can yield respite;
No libation that can appease my blithely shattered heart.
The sadness in her eyes draws me
But I can only stare, nonplussed.
Benumbed by my pain that still bleeds red.
Sometimes I wish I could fly
and take myself away, to a distant land
far removed from the scorching sun
that bakes my earth into a stony hearth
and burns it into a barren wasteland.
Sometimes I wish I could run
Fast enough to escape this darkness
that coaxes me into a frenzied song
and to a fevered dance; of mindless tongues
that sear my lungs and wear my tired soul.
It is not fear that makes my feet
to trudge these forlorn streets, this barren land
of long dead dreams and dried up streams
too lost to yield to the gentle prods
of shoots of change from just beneath.
It is not hope that beguiles me into
This wait; a desire for a lost reprieve.
There is no promise of a better day
No inkling of a future salvation that can
free me from the pull of this wasted land.
It is the lure of nostalgia, the memories
Of once sweet fruits and dainty blooms now dead.
Of memories deep within from which I cannot run.
Of pulls and tugs, enchantments of a pleasure that
the inner darkness craves and wants.
Sometimes I think if I could fly
And I took myself away to a land untouched
By the ravages of a relentless sun, I might just find
that the darkness I was running from
has come with me and is within.