There are certain memories that stick with us for no apparent reason, whose influence we never understand.
For instance, one of my most persistent memories from childhood consists of me sitting in my father’s car, waiting for him and my mother to come back from a shop. It was raining, and all I did was watch this beautiful anomaly of nature; raindrops trickling down the windshield, layers upon layers, drops blending together to form rivulets, like tears running down cheeks. And I thought God wanted to drown the entire world, to cover everything in a deep sea of rain. For a few minutes my life was empty and pointless, and yet time didn’t stop. People were running down sidewalks, struggling to hold onto their umbrellas in the blistering wind, cars were passing by, and the rain kept falling, oblivious and impervious to everything and everyone.
Then there are certain memories that we recognize as being important and relevant to our own story as they are happening, memories that alter our lives.
Like the day I decided it was best to die. It no longer hurt. It wasn’t desperation, the sense of losing control over one’s life. It was the right thing to do. It was what had to be done.
It’s been a long time since I felt terrified about going to bed. Or should I say going to bed alone?
Oh, solitude. That simple yet profound suffering of men. Being alone without feeling lonely; I’ve always perceived it as some sort of art, an act of balancing the most dangerous of thoughts that go through your brain and that bizarre bliss, the ecstasy of having found yourself. The silence, the freedom. The burden of having to wake up all alone, feeling empty and purposeless.
I don’t want to fall asleep. So I drive around, stare at people on the sidewalks. Closed shops. Beggars. Thieves. Whores. Nighthawks. The damned and beautiful. When I do fall asleep, I always dream about her. Each and every night. We talk. We just talk. I tell her everything I never had the chance to tell her. She listens. I ask her all the questions that I need answered in order to let her go, but then I wake up. She smiles and the dream drops dead, dissipating in the shivering light of the morning sun.
I miss her. A lot more than I ever loved her. A lot more than I ever thought possible. The moment I open my eyes in the morning, for a second it feels as if she’s lying there beside me. For a second. Then I know she’s not. She’s gone…
They say it takes some time. To get over. To forget. To move on with your live. To replace. They’re wrong. Only those who never loved can replace. Can forget. The rest of us? We spend whatever is left of our lives aimlessly wandering between love and hate. Between blaming ourselves or them. Between wanting to forget them and wanting to find them again.
It’s a terrible thing to go through. It’s out of your control, out of your reach.
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