Sunday, March 31, 2019

“So it’s true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love.”
― E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly.

It is strange how just when you are beginning to heal and feel whole again, a misty morning chokes you or a cold starry night slashes your eyelids. You wish there was a door that would open up to another life or to another house maybe, where the mirrors still reflected light and where the curtains still joyfully danced to the breeze coming in through the windows. Instead, you wake up on sheets that are already weary of your sweat, to face the same dreary ceiling fan going about its nonchalant motion. 

After all these years, I can’t say what is more tragic, walking down a dusty path all your life looking to find a perfect fit for your soul or to discover that when you finally find someone worthy enough to pour yourself out in a chalice, the nectar has long dried up leaving a permanent stain on your being.

How does one live with the agony of walking through the rest of time when even a moment feels heavy enough to make you fall down on your knees and wish you had never fallen in love in the first place? I am accustomed to the load on my shoulders. Often I think of this burden as the necessary weight I needed to balance myself on the tight rope of my routine but when you are lifeless enough to hold your pieces together, you can’t tell if you actually made any progress or if you have just been gathering dust.

At times, we choose to be led on despite knowing that there will never be a light at the end of this tunnel. We lie and tell ourselves that this is about the journey and not the destination, but what worth is the destination if you have to bleed and cry and wear yourself out all the way. Perhaps, I will never know and maybe it is better that way too.

When I think of her, I want to believe that she buried her face in her palms before she got up on that ledge. Maybe, she raised an arm and beaconed a cloud too. I imagined her scarf held back with a gust of wind, as if urging her to get back inside. Maybe, she even used that piece of silk to pat her face once before letting it fly out. Maybe, just before letting go of the handrail, she looked up towards the sky and called out a name that no one else knew about. Maybe, she saw the last glimmer of hope there. Maybe, she didn’t. Either way, she failed to see the vacuum she was going to leave behind.

I had always known her as a survivor and a fighter. Maybe like most other things in life, bravery can be faked too. Maybe in our heart, we are all are just one push away.

It was dark and lonely in the street when she jumped off the balcony that night. I can imagine her smiling at the wind in her hair and she may have spread her hands in the exhilaration of her brief flight before crashing through the glass canopy.

She loved with all her might but perhaps couldn’t fit it all in her little frame. I can’t imagine how her last heart beat sounded before her chest exploded…splattering the concrete floor with all the love within.

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