Rain-Washed Histories

Once Again.

     Uh-oh. Oh no. Suddenly, after all the time that had passed, I caught myself imagining you coming back to me. Whenever I lay down on my bed, my head sinks in a pillow of far possibilities that you’d once again strategically brush your hand against mine while we walk just to link your fingers with mine and clasp them together tightly but softly.

     Maybe once again you’d come sneaking behind me and cover my eyes with your hands and… But no, you won’t.

Why would you? After all, it was all my fault why it ended this way, why we ended up this way. I admit, I was a jerk. I always am. Every time shit gets real, I run away or I push people away… or a combination of both. I should have warned you. I should have warned you that I’m afraid of being someone else’s someone. But I didn’t because that was the test, I guess. Maybe… you should have ran after me? Oh, was that too much to ask? Sorry.

      We probably won’t be in speaking terms anytime soon—we haven’t even spoken a word to each other since then—but given the chance to say something to you right now, I’d say, “I realized I was wrong.”

No title.

                When people leave you, there will always be a part of you that goes with them whether you’re willing to admit it or not. But then most of us would prefer to resort to acting like we don’t care to fool ourselves into believing that the pain is somehow isn’t there. However, just the effort you put into trying to consciously subdue the memories—either good or bad—is a constant reminder that there is pain in the process. After all, if you truly didn’t care, then wouldn’t the memories be nothing but a speck of dust at the back of your head?

                … But in reality, they’re not. You do care. And you try to fight back the memories that try to pin you down. And you’re hurt. Why, there’s nothing wrong with being hurt, is there?

                Well, I… I used to think there was. I hated being hurt or, at least, showing that I was hurt because I believed that it was weakness not only in other people’s eyes but in my own as well. I wanted to be looked at as the tough one, the one who doesn’t cry, the one who doesn’t care.  At the same time, I knew very well that deep inside I was a far cry from that person. No,  I wasn’t tough. I was as fragile as a twig—always at the edge of breaking but never quite there—and what’s worse is that I did care. I cared too much. And when you care too much, you get hurt. Cliché but true.

                Every time pain struck, I didn’t know what to do. It’s as if I’m running on crumbling pavements, trying so hard not to fall under my own feet, trying to find an escape. I was afraid to face pain because it’s a perfect reflection of all that I’ve lost or what I will never find. During the day, I shrug it off of my shoulders and put on a happy face… or a straight face. A straight face, most of the time. I thought that way I could escape the pending threat of pain and then I could just go on with my life. But when the night falls and I lay on my bed with the thick sheets covering me from the crisp cold, I feel it creep up on me slowly, swallowing me whole and spit me out drenched in my own sorrow and self-loathe.

                  And then the twig breaks. And then I lose the battle.

                Over and over again, day in and day out, I survived—or did I?—living like this… until I got tired. I realized that trying to fight is brave but trying to fight a battle against something you shouldn’t have put a fight with is self-destructive. Once in a while, let yourself feel pain. Let yourself feel weak. Cut yourself some slack; even Superman has Kryptonite.  After all, pain is one thing that makes the heart stronger and heart if what makes all of us human.