Freedom to fly

“But let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but
make not a bond of love:
let it rather be a moving sea
the shores of your souls.”

~ Khalil Gibran

I held your hand once

Yes I love her but sometimes it bores me.

And I like you. I like you because in your fun ways you made me think about how it was like to be 21 again. I think maybe we could hang out and do fun things together, but I also want to spend my life with her. And this cheating nonsense won’t work because its not fair to anyone, not her, not you and not me.

I wish I could have met you earlier and spent awesome with you and met her maybe later when we realised that we couldn’t stand each other anymore. And I wish this all didn’t have to happen the way it did. Maybe you haven’t a clue but its fine, I like it the way it is. I don’t want to lose either one of you.

But I do think that maybe that at some other point we could have been something awesome too.

Just the way you are.

Sometimes I imagine what it’d be like if we broke up.

I don’t think it’s pessimistic, just like how I don’t think contemplating about my death is morbid.

Ironically, it happens when I think about the happiest times we’ve had together.

I’d imagine how I’ll never walk along the bay where you first bared your heart, never eat at that cafe which made you so happy because it reminded you of home, never listen to that song you sent me when you were feeling particularly loving.

The heartache I’d feel when I think about our imaginary break up is so real that I must admit that at times I even tear.

I’ve asked myself why I go through this exercise every so often. I guess that saying ‘You never know what you’ve got until it’s gone’ is as close a reason I can think of. It helps me to overlook the silly insignificant expectations I have that cloud my judgement of you as a very lovely human being.

Thanks for lighting up my days, and making me feel awesome.

Dear J

On paper and social media, we have both moved on. 

During our last months together you set up an email account specially for me after she hacked into your usual ones.

I wrote you countless notes, letters and emails during the time we were together. 

Then the love and exhilaration became backbreaking fatigue.

It’s been over a year since we last met and I’ve still been faithfully writing, posting emails to that forgotten account- on trains, during lunch, in the dead of the night while she sleeps next to me.

Sweetheart, I wonder if you realise we aren’t over yet. 

Goodbye, Goodnight

Today I saw C.

He is a part of my life that I will never be able to erase. He helped me realize that sometimes Love isn’t enough for two people to stay together. And that not being able to tear yourself away from someone didn’t mean that you Loved them.

I think of my naive 17 year old self, face streaked with tears and eyes clouded with confusion. How many times I told him that I was going to walk away from Us. How many times I went running back to him at a mere text message.

I wonder if I thrived on the heartache – that exquisite pain that makes you want to fight even harder to make it work instead of hurting you so badly that you choose to leave. And I wonder how far it was that this heartache was what was truly keeping us together more than anything. We were so caught up in the “Us Against the World” that we lost sight of the Us.

I have never really confronted the nature of our relationship. In the end, I left him for K and still the spectre of my doomed teenage love affair hung between us – there were so many times I would wake up in the early hours of the morning and just lie there, wondering how C was doing without me and what if I wasn’t there when he needed me? I was devastated when my birthday came and went without a Happy Birthday from him – our birthdays were just a day apart, how could he not remember? Instead, a hundred days after we broke up, a message came.

“Everyday with you felt like a year to me. And now you’ve been gone a century.”

For a honeymoon of five months, we were joined at the hip. I will never forget those slow days like an Indian summer.

Lying in the school fields blasting Coldplay into our ears and just dreaming and dreaming our lives away. Watching movie after movie after movie, sometimes twice, just so we had excuse to spend time with each other.

Falling asleep on long bus rides to nowhere and waking up on an empty upper deck – where I asked you where we were now you said “Forever” and it felt just like it.

When I first saw you, I thought you were the most beautiful boy I had ever met. You were quiet, but when you smiled and those dimples peeked out, I was smitten.

When our gazes met, I shivered, and I knew something was going to Happen. I didn’t know if it was going to be good or bad, but my life was about to change.

Isn’t it funny how people can go from feeling like they are two halves of a whole to being complete strangers? How one day you were holding my hand and then five minutes later it wasn’t okay anymore? I wondered how our love could have been so insignificant and fickle that everything was gone in a Day.

I was wrong, it wasn’t over in a day. It took months to get over you. A song would make me dizzy with confusion – my heart would swell. I saw you everywhere, in every person in the street. It could have been a lock swept across someone’s forehead that looked exactly like yours. It was a man striding casually down the street just like how you used to. It was the smell of your cologne on someone passing me by in a corridor. It made my heart sick.

The way we loved was poetic, the way we left was poetic, and the way we met again could only have been Fate.

I was on the train, half asleep, and our song was playing in my earphones.

Can you believe it? I couldn’t. I opened my eyes and you were sitting across from me.

Our eyes met and I felt nothing but a lovely nostalgia. It felt so natural when C walked over to me and sat down and I passed him one of my earphones. He listened to the rest of the song.

I got off at the next stop, my stop, and we shared a last look. That look said, I wish you love. It was the look shared between two lovers who were now strangers – it was the look shared between two strangers who knew that they would never meet again.

For me, there is no dramatic love story. There will be no ex lovers appearing at my wedding and snatching my hand as we run off into the sunset.

I can’t deny that I had never loved a boy as madly and as distractedly as him. But the fact is, even though I still love him today, I am no longer in love with him. And the fact is that I am not the me who sobbed until she couldn’t breathe besides the river behind the house she no longer lives in.

Our story ended that day. And my life today began again just the next day, when a boy with kind eyes and a mischievous smile and a heart that had the capacity to love me like no one ever will appeared in my life.

The beautiful relationship…

Lunch is the best time of my day. Without fail, we drive out to some small corner for moments of solidarity and peace. I get to see her, hold her hand and hear her laughter. I have dedicated the last 4 yrs of my lunch time with her and I will continue so until the day I die for there’s no one else I’d rather be with. She gives me strength and support for my work; she’s the motivation I go to work. . Nobody else understands me more than her, nobody. I do not take days off from work because I cannot stand the mere thought of not seeing her for even one day less. The day becomes meaningless when we know the other half is off from work. Weekends are miserably unbearable. That’s how much we miss each other. We share intimate moments and we love each other. Time spent with her is always a sweet form of blessing and bliss to me..

…….. and at the end of the day when its time to knock off…..…… she returns to her husband, I return to my wife and my 4 yr old son.

heart of glue

I figured that, we too, were like the reflections – beautiful, transient and unreal. I’m tired of swimming upstream against the rapids, my limbs are weak and my heart is spent. I thought it would get better with practice, apparently not.

Maybe the tear ducts are less susceptible but the slow realization that many years of friendship is now replaced by silence is always harder than it really is.

I tread gingerly around people, places and things to avoid feeling the emptiness at the knowledge that once, we were or we had or we did.

Then begs the question – how many times can your heart broken? Let me count the ways. My answer is, many. Maybe that’s why they say the heart always dies a slow death.

We break it, fix it; break it, fix it; break it, fix it; until the heart is more glue than heart.