Life Itself

Every year, I think about you. Not too many times, but consistently, a few times. And each time I am not sure how I should feel. There is a vague sense of loss, a subtle tinge of abandonment, a painful realisation of independence. But mostly, there is just a numb nothingness.   Who were you? I am not even sure I remember your face. Your smile, yes. Your eyes, too. But in pieces, in context. I can't imagine your reaction in a new situation. I can't see you as you may have become. I can only see the frozen moments that I have embalmed in my head.   I wonder if you feel the need to see me. If you imagine what it may feel like to talk to me now. If you wish you had known me all this time. If I am even a real person to you. If you have convinced yourself that I don't exist.   Perhaps it isn't as simple as moving on, as erasing, as avoiding. Maybe it's an intense removal, a complete denial. I don't hate you. I don't love you. It's an absence of anything ta...

I remember that time. You and I both woke up so early in the morning. Maybe it was 4 am. Who knows. We spoke like it was the last time we would get to talk. And I remember crying. Not because I was leaving, but because I was leaving you behind. Who knew, 15 years later, nothing would change. Yes, we grew up. Yes, our lives became more difficult, more complex. Yes we made new friends. Yes, we went in different directions. But today, as we sat together, I knew nothing had really changed. You were still looking out for me. I was still my slightly forgetful, slighty spaced out, very excited self. You were still your very eager, very caring self. With some people, life changes things. With others, the foundation is so strong that it's impossible to shake. You fall in the latter category. No matter where we go, the ease with which we can simply coexist and talk about nearly anything, is one of a kind. To me, that's real friendship.

I don't know what it's about the sea. But when I stand on the sea shore, there is a strange, never ending calm that begins to wash over me. It's not like the sound of water by itself is soothing, or the salty wind in my air is exhilarating. But there is something simple in that moment that makes me feel at ease. A feeling that is usually hard to come by.

I can tell you in many ways that I love you. I can tell you about how your smile makes me smile. About how your sheer presence makes me cheerful. I can relish in the many simple feelings that envelope me in your presence. I can write endlessly about the character and meaning you add to my life. I can see and sense and feel, every way in which you fulfill me. But how do I tell you that all that is not enough? How do I tell you that when the time is wrong, even love isn't enough? How do I break your heart, knowing fully well that I will regret it the very next second? How do I stop leading you on, when leading you on is the only thing that's keeping me from going insane? How do I tell you I love you, without it breaking you? How do I tell you I love you, and not love you?

When you feel death come towards you, fast, really really fast, what do you do? Do you shut down? Do you give up and wait hopelessly? Or do you start living with a new found urgency, packing everything you can into the last few days, hours minutes? And if you do, what do you fill them with? With last minute wishes? With apologies, last words, goodbyes? With travel, with books, with movies? With new things, with old things? If someone told you, you were going to die, would you change how you lived your life? Would you have loved more, lived more? Would you have taken more vacations, danced more? Would you write that book, with all its truth? Would you have called the people that disappeared? Would you have done something different?

I opened your empty house and saw everything. That main door, that name plate, the easy couches, the glass, the water, the boxes, the cupboard above the door, the balcony, the orange border, the oversized furnishing, the lace, the hung shirts, the towel rod, the tiles, the paint, the gas, the plates, the curtains, the rug, the glass shelf, the tap, the plants, the bowl, the heater, the speakers. It felt like my home. And then, just like that, it was your home, and I was only a stranger trespassing.

I have partly accepted your silence. Your choice to ignore, to pretend, to forget. I have mostly embodied your distance. Your sudden change of mind, your near indifference. I have nearly understood your intention. Your unbecoming smile, your blank eyes. I have barely felt your unending discomfort. Your unrelenting confusion, your one-more goodbye.