Not Just Another Pretty Face: The Unfinished Story

Sunday, November 22, 2009

The Unfinished Story

The steady staccato beat- the sound of my own typing of this post, of nimble fingers against plastic keyboard seem to me to reverberate with a sound of finiteness.

Something beautifully simple, yet convoluted with unexpectedly piercing twists and painfully surprising turns. Punctuated. Unspoken. With the closing of an old car door.

My heart knows though I cannot explain how, it has at long last culminated in an unspectacular end. The ending after the ending and yet, I still childishly cannot bring myself to say it out loud. Clinging on to the wispy vestiges of innocent hope that something if not espoused, will not be. But, to say that there still is the seed of hope, would not be true.

The 852 odd days between then and now, makes things seem such a long time ago. When in actuality much has happened but neither of us has truly moved on.

It is impossible not to think of you fondly when I write this. Of a time when the naive, untempered believe that we could always be happy together, flourished.

It is funny, what the most touching memory I have of you is. Perhaps, in retrospect, it defines us. I get hurt, I turn to you. You were always my salve, my balm in time of pain. The Mopiko for my mosquito bites, the plaster for my cuts. I was comforted but the pain was too raw, too fresh in my mind. And the scabby scars, as reminders they were too many to feel truly safe.

It dully surprises me, that it still hurts. I don't fully understand why I should still feel disappointment that nothing has changed. You have not changed but I should not expect you to.

I should not be shedding these tears.

I will wake up tomorrow and I will put on my makeup. I will go to work. I will talk to people. I will catch my flight. I will go to the gym for my favourite classes. I will meet my best friends for dinner. Over the weekend, I will go shopping at the familiar haunts. I will turn up for all my weekend appointments and even have fun in the process.

But tonight, tonight I mourn that things could not have been different. That it might have taken a longer time than most, but I could have written us a different ending, and it would come true.

So much for my happy endings.

Labels: Me myself and I