Let’s start with the stitches.
A thin thread here and there, a needle too sharp for the reinventing. A careful stroke to mend what was broken; the painful incisions of love. A bandage to wrap the heart in melancholy, to silence the bleeding from within. I, together with the nightfall, scream; as if there were no such cold thing.
Today is Valentine’s Day. I propose a toast to love, to the men and women who are held captives of it, to candlelit dinners and expensive chocolates that cost a half month’s pay, to movie marathons and red roses that last only until midnight, to Hallmark cards and love songs that play the part of a substitute for all the words that can not be said and done, to the sweetest kisses and the sweetest words that mean nothing to these lost souls, but only a facade to mask the fear and insecurity and bitterness within their hearts of stone.
I propose a toast to memories, the ones that are hidden away in the pages of a scrapbook; the days, the months, the long-forgotten years all compiled in brightly-colored papers to conceal the gloom of what used to be, a tragedy of a love that was lost. I propose a toast to photographs, still images that captured the hands of time and made it eternally possible to return to the past, a painful remembrance of shared yesterdays and shared dreams.
I propose a toast to promises, these empty words that with the passing of time, eventually fail its purpose and lose all meaning, leaving both of them drenched in their own down-going. I propose a toast to an uncertain future which holds tragic tales of these promises. They hope, a silent hope, in all its splendor and beauty. But in uncertainty they will find their own destruction.
I propose a toast to forgetting, to celebrate the end of self-inflicted misery and pain. May the prisoners of this grand thing we call love find their own enlightenment and be freed from the chains of its foolishness and passivity. May they realize that the heart must not move on, but must only be mastered in order to have the strength to look back and not hurt anymore. May they have the courage to understand and find love that surmounts any definition, a love that goes beyond the context of a romantic date or chocolates or a bouquet of red roses. May the songs of the past resound loudly in their chest and echo into a thundering voice, enough to shake them from their slumber. May they awaken, the dispirited ones.
I propose a toast to these three sacred words, to love and to the death by which I have imposed upon it. These words, this love, they mean nothing to me now. They have lost all essence, all meaning, all hope and purpose when I met someone who killed them all for me. A man of no life, a murderer of desires; he killed the hope inside me with a double-bladed knife and pierced right through my fragile heart with both enthusiasm and pride. He lured me into the abyss where all noise are trapped in a silence too deafening, where nothing can be heard but the sound of his voice. He put me into a curse, a spellbound love, and wrapped his fingers around my blindedness; I am forever possessed by his enigma. He kissed me with a kiss of death, now I find myself dying.
The inner chaos brought death to him; his insanity led to the birth of a new found glory, the flight of a rising star. From above the aloof heavens, his spirit dwells; one glimpse in the world of mortals and he saw me. I gazed, with eager attention, towards the vast universe and saw him. For a moment, we stood in silence and stared longingly at each other’s eyes.
I could go back to day one, back when we first met; the crashing waves by the seaside, the bright city lights, the cold wind at the onset of dawn, the stolen glances from the corner of my eyes, his unspeakable silence, and forever forget the magic of that very first encounter. I could lie to myself that he never mattered to me, that he is, like every one else, a nobody, and that would be such a beautiful lie. I could find an exit to escape the torment of falling but that would be, in plain honesty, my greatest defeat. I could leave but even that is pointless, for I always find myself running back to him.
It is painfully difficult, which I shall confess with all honesty, to dance with a dead man. It often requires me a deeper understanding of what goes on inside his head; his insane thoughts and ideas. Those thoughts scare me sometimes; they have a peculiar way of breaking my heart to pieces, enough to make me cry in both confusion and fear. But those thoughts are rare, precious even. They have a distinct imprint of a genius I know too well. When I look at him, I see someone new, someone different; he seems to glow with a light too captivating for the words to tell, that look of otherness in his telltale eyes, a desperate yearning to fly.
The pain hangs eternally in thin air, ever present in all the nook and crannies of the memories we share. It hurts, occasionally, when his insane thoughts and ideas clash with mine and we realize the differences that set us apart. It hurts when I remember that love comes with no guarantee, no assurance; when all that comes to play is trust— a hefty amount of trust that can be bended or unbended over time. It hurts when I think about the possibility of a future without love; of me crushing in tremendous pain, of him loving someone else.
And with every painful memory of what was said and done, I’ve learned to stand strong and trust; to pave the way for forgiveness and healing for a heart that has been damaged with a thousand lethal words.
Stitches, for all that was bruised and broken. Then we fall apart and we mend again.
I’d surrender this life, if only to close the light years between us and reach the heavens and the stars. I’d die a thousand deaths, if that what it takes to be with him, within and beyond the chains of love.
Happy Hearts Day, you miserable people! 🙂