The taste of pain
It’s wonderful. Falling out of love.
Long time ago, people tried hard, damn hard to keep the flame intact, keep the persons glued, love burning, but times are different now, burn hurts, love hurts, they want freedom, freedom of responsibility, answerability. They don’t want anyone to poke them for anything. They are different now, and with each passing moment, they grow more distant, more different. And eventually comes a day when you find them so far away that you wonder if you ever knew them; if they ever cared for you; if they ever went awry so much so that they grew angry over mundane things, like your missing a dinner, or leaving your clothes unwashed in a bucket, or mess of your room, all out of pure innocent concern, love. And then life starts falling apart into pieces, gnawed at by bitter teeth of some past reality, of some past relationship, of some long ago commitment – so what if that commitment didn’t charge you up now, you had made them once, now you owe them your life…right honey? So what if people of your recent acquaintances are left behind on mud of hurt, abandoned in dirt to die slowly, minute-by-minute, in futile trial. So what if they had claimed love to them once, their past loves had to reclaim them, their past had to reign their present, and people of recent past – I mean a month or so old – don’t mean a thing, they were there just for the sake of being, cursed of existence, of desertion.
Initially survival seems a distant dream, gradually you learn to live with all this, convincing yourself with each passing moment that that was just a dream, a hollow dream, an abyss, like a black hole, the more you want to come out the more you are trapped in, and try to keep that dream at bay, far, far away from yourself, just like those people have kept themselves so far away from you, and then gradually the image starts to fade, and normalcy reclaims itself. But it doesn’t happen every time. Sometimes you can not differentiate reality to dreams, and you give in, yield to the pungent taste of what has been thrown at you, and the only oasis – not to save your life, but only to assuage the pain a little with slippery fluid that makes your past slip away, as if rolling down a mountain – appears as alcohol. And you booze and booze and booze, for whole nights, 16 hours in stretch, until all senses of time and space translate themselves into some hazy, dull colors, the events of past seem to lie in some long ago, earlier lifetime, not connected to you directly so that you can comment on them like an spectator, not as a victim; until all your ego, your pillars, your means to exist slip past the present moment and you slouch in front of them, almost begging them, to take you back in their lives, but – alas! – there is no such thing as pity, they just don’t know it, they are as cold as ice, as hard as iron, and you are once again thrown on the streets. This time your ego doesn’t hurt, it can’t, it has become inured to insults, it wants that person, and only that person. It abets you for another try, and you follow it hungrily, hoping to see a flicker of sympathy, and may be love. That too eventually dies out but you keep repeating it as a ritual – sacred out of sheer repetition – and that person becomes venerable to you, almost like a god, you standing out of a temple, and the god shooing you out of the premise. Are you cursed? No, only ignored. Not worthy enough of existence. But, devoid of your ego, you look at your god eagerly, merely to hear him say something, any tripe, any silly excuse, any stupid rationale, and you gulp all in, whipping your tongue out, hungry for more silly things.
Then the god says, love is like a puddle of dirty water, one falls in, one falls out, no one wants to remain in. Great philosophy! Philosophies are for losers, only to keep their head calm, and away from action. Drink in the theory and forget the reality…eh!
“God, but…why are you leaving me?”
“Because I have to.” God replies. And he thinks he is right, have said enough to make sense, and alleviate the agitating brain, and heart of yours.
Well, we morons are not to raise a finger at him; he does what he pleases. And yesterday he had his reasons for it. A long time ago relationship, and a long time ago commitment. He can’t live with the past and the present at once. He chose his past, fair enough, seniority matters, depth ness?, ah…who cares? Whatever. It’s a wonderful feeling, you know, falling out of love. To shatter everything that you held so close to your heart, with such rudeness, and so suddenly, that it takes a lifetime to rebuild them again. Brick and mortar, slathering the ruin, in the last vestige of your once-upon-a-time love story, how can you pick them, each for its respective position and put them again in order? There is no way. No way.
People find different ways to deal with it, to head off the frustration of loss. I do it by boozing, smoking, and of course writing. In distant hope that perhaps god would read it someday, and if any pity has left in him, he would probably let me in into the temple, not to love me – I know he will not, he can not, perhaps he never had – just to share my existence, rebuilding my confidence in life. But can you stop loving god? No. With each heartbeat of yours, your heart would utter only his name, only his love.
It’s like the taste of pain. Wonderful, enthralling, but sordid.
“Here comes your turn, enjoy ani.”
“Yes…yes…thanks honey.” I mumbled, as he kicked me to the hell.