Her Painter, and Her Wanderer.

It was a rare cold summers evening in Paris. His electric blue eyes, one that would make any girl stop dead in her tracks, seemed far away and lonely. From far, he looked like one with deep troubled thoughts, like one who had too much on his mind, but no one to speak with. From far, he seemed to be smiling, but almost as if to someone who wasn’t near him; it looked like a secret smile, reserved for just one person.

Nash took a deep breath of the French air, it was almost sunset, he sipped his black coffee and looked around him. A young French girl in the café opposite him seemed to be transfixed by his eyes. He gave her a shy grin, which turned into a huge smile as he watched her almost drop her coffee in surprise. With not much to do, he decided to go over and say hello.

Ashoka walked along the cobbled road. Smoking the last few drags of his cigarette, he decided to light another one. His eyes were dark, for those who believed eyes were the windows to a soul, his was one soul that carried too much pain, a soul that was lost and unforgiven. He looked around for a café, his stomach was rumbling but he’d been ignoring it for a while now. However, now, he wanted coffee to go with his cigarette.

Walking along the streets of Paris, he wondered why he had chosen this city, after nearly five years of travelling, he had decided to end his journey where he had started it. And he was hoping, praying, one would almost say, praying, that he would meet Her here. She had promised him… He stopped himself from thinking. His head was spinning. It was cold, funny weather he wondered. His long nose, her favorite, could smell warm French bread, he decided to follow.

“Bonjour Monsieur!” Greeted a bright eyed, dimpled waitress at a café he decided to walk into. She gave him one of her biggest grins, probably one saved for the larger tips. Ashoka gave her a half smile and found himself a table in the corner, outside, where there was a little bit of sunlight, he decided to light himself another cigarette.

Nash smiled to himself, her number in his pocket, he was walking back to his café. He stopped. The café formed the  perfect backdrop, with the red umbrellas outside, a gloomy day, a ray of sunshine fell onto one table in particular. A young man, he didn’t look like he was from around here, was smoking on one of the outside tables. He was looking ahead, he was all by himself, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Nash wondered what he must be thinking of. He walked closer, found his own table outside, but this time, chose to face this stranger instead of the girl behind him. On closer inspection, he noticed how unlike the others who came alone to the café, this stranger came with no book, no phone, no newspaper… just a pack of cigarettes and a cup of coffee.

Nash got up. Something pulled him towards this stranger.

“Excuse me…?” He was clearly interrupting.

“Hello…” The stranger smiled.

“My name is Nash. I frequent this café way too much to recognize an unfamiliar face…” He started.

The stranger laughed, “Yeah… I’m not from around here actually. Just landed yesterday, found myself walking the streets today, and ended up under this red umbrella.”

Nash grinned back, “I see, well… I hope I’m  not interrupting you…”

“Oh no… I’d love the company, coffee?” The stranger interrupted him, “Cigarette?”

“Coffee would be perfect.” Nash declined the cigarette politely.

After another round of coffees, which soon turned to whiskey, and more cigarettes than Nash could count, the stranger asked him,

“So what brings you to Paris, you don’t look like you’re from around here, but you seem to fit right in…” His dark eyes piercing into Nash’s blue. Nash wondered what pain those eyes must have seen; they were deep, they had many stories to tell, well, to hide.

“A girl…” Nash smiled, but Ashoka noticed quickly, it was a sad smile. A story to hide, he wondered,

“Looks like girls these days seem to love Paris…”

Nash looked surprised, “You too?” Ashoka nodded, taking a rather large gulp of his cold whiskey. It was either the warmth of the whiskey, or her memory, or the wind had changed, but he suddenly felt warm from the inside.

“Five years ago, I broke a girls heart.” He stopped, it had been five years since he had spoken about her, but something about this stranger made him want to tell him more.

Nash stayed silent, listening. The strangers eyes seemed to want to talk, and Nash was in no mood to disturb, he took another sip of his whiskey. He prayed silently, I wish this has a happy ending.”

“She waited for me, and foolishly, I travelled the world, without her. I left her behind, waiting. And never once did I look back. I tried in the beginning. To love her, hold her, keep her close to me. But one day, I felt like I needed to fly.

I met lots of people, slept with lots of women, but I’ve never met a soul like hers. And now I feel I’ve wandered all over Earth, only to want to find her soul.”

Ashoka stopped to take a breath. In one fluid motion, all her memories; he had to share them with this stranger in Paris. It only seemed like the perfect thing to do.

“She had beautiful hair, long and dark black; they seemed to have a life of their own. Always reflecting her mood. Her eyes, were beautiful and brown, all the stars in the world seem to be born from them. Her perfect lips, I could kiss them for hours, if only I hadn’t walked away. Holding her body, tracing the curves of her waist, her perfect back… I would kiss her back for hours, she would be fast asleep next to me. She was my angel, and I tore her wings and threw her away.”

Nash started feeling sick in his stomach. He listened to the strangers whole story, of  betrayal, destruction, pain and tears. It all sounded too familiar.

After almost an hour, Nash stood up. Ashoka thought he must have offended him, or even worse, bored him with his story of his perfect angel, who was now missing, whom he now longed to see, touch, kiss, hold; but he didn’t know where to find her.

“Come with me…” With his head spinning, Nash tried to control his anger and walked inside the café. The stranger following close behind, looking more than confused. He lead him into the now busy café, the lights were on, and it took them both a second to get adjusted to the lighting. Soft familiar music played in the background, Intense. Ashoka tried to remember; there were pictures on the walls, they all looked too familiar. Ashoka wondered how much he had had to drink… He felt a little sick. They reached a back door, completely hidden from the café, he followed Nash inside.

Suddenly, it was as if he was hit by a thousand shooting stars, he realized what he was looking at. It was a beautiful painting, a tall painting; a girl, a beautiful girl stood smoking a cigarette with her perfect red lips, her eyes were sad, and far away. She was wearing nothing but a white blanket around her perfectly curved waist. Ashoka stood in silence.

“Roxanne…” They both said together.

Ashoka turned to look at him, the pointed nose, the electric eyes, the paint on his fingers, it took him a while to realize who he was looking at.

“Yeah… it’s me. I found her in Paris, it was months after you left her. She was broken, torn, exactly how you said you’d left her. She waited years for you to come back. I gave her all the love I could, all the happiness, but something was missing. She never let me touch her, mind you, I kissed those perfect lips of hers, but she never lay down next to me. Yours was the last touch she wanted to remember…” Nash stopped, looking directly in Ashoka’s horrified eyes.

“Yours was the last touch she had.

This café, is named after her, The Broken Butterfly. Those pictures on the wall, are all the pictures she took for you, with you, when she missed you… she waited for the day you would come and she would show them to you… Ashoka… She waited for you… Until she could wait no more.”

Ashoka didn’t want to hear more. He turned away, he needed to get out of this place. He ran out of the room behind, into the café, and found himself facing a huge portrait. It was a picture, a couple tangled in a white blanket, only the boys face and long nose could be seen, and the girls long dark hair. Deep sunlight poured in through the window, a white thin curtain allowing the sun to gently kiss their bodies.

It took Ashoka a while to realize he was crying in the middle of the café. A waitress smiled at him shyly,

“Lots of customers come in here and look at this picture with confusion; they find it perfect, yet incomplete. They say they see love, but hidden in it is great sorrow. If you don’t know, this café is a tribute to the girl in the picture, and her Wanderer, she used to call him.

All it took was a handful of sleeping pills, and a glass of red wine. Our owner, Nash, found her. Said he had never seen her so peaceful. Beside her, was a letter, it said, “Here’s to the perfect ending” and that’s it. No reason, no name, nothing… but anyone could take one look into her eyes and know that this was eventual.”

Nash watched as Ashoka ran out of his café into the dark night of Paris. Somewhere, he felt jealous; he wondered why Ashoka had decided to come to his café of all the places in Paris. He smiled at his painting of their Roxanne; her painter, and her wandered had finally met. Somewhere, he hoped she was smiling; that big smile of hers… And he prayed that she would guide her Wanderer, how when he would look into the lonely sky, her twinkling lights would always keep him company.

Yup, he was jealous. 

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Pack Up Angry.

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Translated From The Japanese by Jay Rubin

I’m on a train, choosing to leave my life of comfort and satisfaction, but one which came with grief and sadness… In the hope that one day I will write something so beautiful, that a girl, alone and confused picks up my  For Many Fêtes  book and a pen and cries her story out into my words. And I will listen and pray that my words soothe her, make her angry, let her cry and eventually she should find peace.

This is my journey to peace.

As the train pushes me forward minute by minute, I feel this odd sense of calm and a wave of comfort sweeps over me, empowering me. It’s strange, but his thoughts are far away now – close enough to make me smile, but far away to take away that physical pain.

Is this my beginning?

Give me the strength to be away from him.

I had the great fortune of having the best company on my journey, with the whole train in probably a dreamless sleep, with a small white light, I entered the world of Norwegian Wood, Murakami took me into himself, mesmerized, I followed him as he gave me the strength to face my anger, pain and the sudden realization that I was indeed running away.

My instinct, to grab my phone and text him; only to be feel my heart break into a little more pieces, his last words to me where, “I’ll text you all night; I’ll make you better; I’m here for you always.”, these messages were more than four hours ago, I stared at the blue light from the long messages that I had sent him. With my phone light off, I turned back to Murakami, to Toru Watanabe, and let him show me his pain, so that I wasn’t embarrassed to face mine.

Together, on that silent train, save for the turning of the pages, or my soft sighs and cries, we took a vow, and decided it was time to  heal.

The kicking never hurts me. There’s no pain at all. Just a hollow sound that echoes with each kick. And even that is bound to fade one day. At Hamburg airport, though, the kicks were longer and harder than usual. Which is why I am writing this book. To think. To understand. It just happens to be the way I’m made. I have to write things down to feel I fully comprehend them.” Watanabe explained to me, sincerely, his eyes closed as I watched him dive deeper, sinking under the memories, that at one time, did indeed hurt, but tonight, it just made him remember.  

He spoke to me about trust, “ “I just  know,” she said, increasing her grip on my hand and walking in silence. “I know these things. I’m always right. It’s got nothing to do with logic: I just feel it. For example, when I’m really close to you like this, I’m not the least bit scared. Nothing dark or evil could ever tempt me.”” His words made me smile, it was now my turn to remember. But I haven’t yet learned how to remain calm through this pain. My heart started pounding, sweating I tried to tell myself to breathe easily. I closed my eyes, but I could only feel his safe arms around me, I knew if I opened them, I would be thrown into harsh reality, and I wondered if I could bear it. I knew I had to open my eyes, Watanabe knew I had to open my eyes, far away, He was probably wishing that I would open my eyes too.

We read on,

Promise me two things,

You’ll come to see me again.

You’ll always remember me. Will you remember that I existed? That I stood  next to you like this?”

A faint smile on my lips, a slow, silent, tear makes its way down my cheek.

“I promise I’ll come to see you again.”

It was His voice.

My breath quickened. I knew I had to stop, I knew I had to open my eyes. This wasn’t real. Nothing was real. But His voice came again,

“I promise I’ll come to see you again.

I promise never to forget you.”

Again and again, his words repeating, my lips now in a silent scream, the tears running faster than the train, my heart darker than the starless sky outside. With a screech the train jerked to a stop, I sat up sweating. We had reached another silent station. One where no one got on, no one got off. I wondered.

He and Watanabe urged me to read more, it’s a healing process, someone was answering the unanswered questions in my mind. I tried to silence the voice.

Stop taking everything so seriously; establish a proper distance between myself and everything else… I tried hard to forget, but there remained inside me a vague knot of air. And as time went by, the knot began to take on a clear and simple form, a form that I am able to put into words, like this: Death exists, not as the opposite but as a part of like.

Death has always been my favorite ending. It has always made me picture and realize some of the most beautiful stories lie in our ability to understand that nothing is permanent. And one day, it will end.

So we must write and love and read and share till the day, or the moment, when death appears and we smile and carry on to our new adventure.

Since He has chosen a path which has no space for  me or my love, I have decided that there is only but one solution left for me, to write to Him.

My Dearest, Darling You,

I am sorry I haven’t called you since I reached, and even more about the last message that I sent you. I waited all night on this train journey of mine, hoping you would reply, but you didn’t. 

I read an amazing book last night, almost finished the whole thing! I think I’m finally getting back to reading again. I guess, it’s better company. I borrowed a few lines from Murakami’s ‘Norwegian Wood’, because just as Naoko finds it difficult to pen her thoughts when it comes to Watanabe, I too, become speechless.

“I am a flawed human being – a far more flawed human being than you realize. Which is precisely why I do not want you to hate me. Because if you do were to do that, I would really go to pieces. I can’t do what you do: I can’t slip into my shell and wait for things to pass. I don’t know for a fact that you are really like that, but sometimes you give me that impression. I often envy you, which may be why I led you around in circles so much.

The one thing I don’t want to be is a burden to anyone. I can sense the good feelings you have for me. They make me happy. All I am doing in this letter is trying to convey that happiness to you. Those good feelings of yours are probably just what I need at this point of time in my life. Please forgive me if anything I have written here upsets you. As I said before, I am a far more flawed human being that you realize.”

I Love You.

I read the letter, re-read the letter; thought of his last words, “Yes, I am attracted to her.”

And deleted the letter.

 

The Tattoos.

She stared at the tattoos on her body. In an instant she could count more than four, without even looking for them.
She closed her eyes, letting the cool wind play with her hair; it was a calm night, Clarity played somewhere in the background. It made her wonder.

Taking a deep drag of her cigarette she let it out into the stillness of the night. It wasn’t that late, but she still felt like she was the only one alive.
The only one with a beating heart.

She traced her fingers over the tattoo on her right wrist, it was a feather, an empty broken ink pot lay beside, tracing smoothly around her soft wrist, was his name. She smiled when she read it, but something inside her couldn’t let her say his name aloud.

Another drag of her cigarette.

She looked away, her left wrist. A small black jigsaw puzzle on the arch between her thumb and her wrist.

Another drag of her cigarette.

All three sides were straight and there was place for only one more to fit; her missing piece, the final piece to her life’s puzzle.

Another drag of her cigarette.

The smoke pierced her eyes, it stung, tears appeared; or so she forced herself to believe.
She stopped thinking of her missing piece.

Another drag of her cigarette.

She looked away, deep into the depths of the sky; the full moon; her journey. She smiled and looked at her right ankle; there on the side, a full moon, hiding beneath dark clouds.
Her journey, her path, she knew it was all destined, by the moon. The Wanderer looks at the Moon, for guidance, solace, direction and fulfillment. She hoped one day, her steps would create his path.
She would turn, and he would be standing behind her; silent, as always, her Wanderer, reaching out to the ends of the Earth, to find his Moon.

Another drag of her cigarette.

She closed her eyes, letting the smoke out gently, she felt a little piece of her go out with it too.
It calmed her.
Another drag of her cigarette. The red burning tip inching closer and closer to her perfect red lips.

Her left foot, in beautiful cursive, “Thank you for the adventure, now go live yours.” Her favorite quote, her favorite film; her last line to him.
She tried to forget, but she remembered, this was her night to heal… This was her night to forgive.

He only remembered her eyes as the brightest stars in the night sky.
He only remembered her lips as the softest haven he had kissed.
He only remembered her smile as the sunshine on a warm blue day.
Her long hair, as she danced in front of him. Her sly winking, as she naughtily caught him staring at her.
Her lip biting that made him forget the World around him.
Her swaying body, her soft moans, her gentle hands…

She opened her eyes. She was sweating now. The cigarette had reached it’s end and burned her lips.

She threw it away.

She stared at her tattoos, her eyes teary and tired.
Her lips forgetting how to smile.
Her short hair that no longer danced with her.
Her body, now cold and dark.
And her empty cries that filled up the night sky….

It was these, he would never know.

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She lit another cigarette. 

The Death of A Writer.

I miss you. 

I miss you so much, I want to scream it from the tenth floor of my terrace sometimes. Yeah, standing right where we were; when you were holding my face in your gentle hands, telling me stories, making me dream, all just by looking into my eyes.
It was your deep deep eyes that I fell in love with; and it’s been since then I’ve been hypnotized by you. 
 
No morning of mine should begin with me not looking into them, but every morning of yours wishes to wake up never looking into mine. 
 
But that’s not the point. 
 
I miss you.
 
 
And I want to scream it out, from the top of my lungs. 
 
But you’ve scared me to even think about missing you. It seems like a lifetime ago, you held me hand, and whispered sweet nothings; a lifetime ago, you danced, and saw my face, you told me how much you loved me.
 
I was your everything. 
 
She stopped writing, the nib of her ink pen breaking, blue ink spilling over the paper, flowing, the life of her pen, flowing endlessly; nothing that she could do to stop it. She waited, watching it finally dry out. She held her pen and gently set it down on the oak table. She wondered. The pen, it looked peaceful; it had helped her, gave words to her confused thoughts. It gave her freedom; her pen, it took away all her pain. It took away all her sorrow and sadness, her pen, it gave her comfort. 
 
She stared at her pen. The tears now flowing faster down her cheeks. Her pen. Their journey. It had reached an end. 
 
She stared at the letter that she had written, the last few words – her words, her thoughts… her pen. She didn’t want to send this letter to Him; because suddenly, it did not matter. Her voice was gone. Her companion was gone. Her pen was her soul-mate; and she realized this only as she stared at the pool of deep ink blue lying on the page, now almost dry, like her tear stained cheek. 
 
She held the pen tightly in her hands, staring at the broken nib.
 
They were together for almost a second; but they would be together for eternity. She watched the dried pool of blue, as it slowly merged with the red. 
 
Holding her pen tightly in her hand, she smiled, her eyes were closed. 
 
Her pen and her, had finally found their perfect ending. 
 
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Silence.

Silence.
It can be purely terrifying, blissful at times, and if you’re lucky, serene.

Silence.
It can make you think, make you dream, and if you’re really lucky, it gives you emptiness.

Silence.
It can make you remember, sometimes there’s a smile, if you’re really lucky, it lets you cry.

Silence.
It can make you wish, it can make let you achieve, if you’re really lucky, it teaches you to forget.

Silence.
It can make you bleed, it can hurt, and if truly, indeed, you are lucky, then silence, it can help you forgive.

Silence.

 

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And It Was In Their Fate, Never To Meet Again.

He walked around the green fields, little white flowers grew in bunches around him. He knew how she would react; he could see her smiling, the wind blowing through her long wild hair, that sparkling in her shy brown eyes and the faint hint of a smile with her luscious red lips.
She would ask him to come and lie down next to her, count the flowers, lie under the sun… She loved looking at the clouds, he accused her of doing this for hours; but she never stopped. She saw hearts, flowers, faces, animals … She’s lived a whole dream world up in those clouds.

He looked up, the sun was shining brightly and the sky was clear blue, not a single cloud in sight. But he knew she would find something else to do.

He walked on, her laughter ringing in his ears, like background music on a cold summers day.
He could feel the warmth of her fingers locked into his, he felt a jolt of guilt, he should have held on tighter. He walked on.
He could see her talking, about almost anything; in sight or not.. He loved that about her. Well, another jolt, used to; how it changed from her cute laughter to painful words and endless tears he wouldn’t know.

His eyes burned, he rubbed them fiercely. He willed himself to think of a better time; he slowly realised, for as much as he could remember, there wasn’t one.

“Did you ever love me?”
“Do you miss me?”
“Can we talk tonight?”
“Can you not go to Europe, and come to me instead?”
“Can you come on my birthday?”
“Do you love me?”
“Do you love me?”
“Do you love me?”
“Do you love me?”

In the calm silence of the meadow, a man was heard, screaming “YES YES YES” to no one in particular. He wore a dark suit, was kneeling on the ground amongst the wild flowers, a letter he read, again and again, hoping she comes out of it and listens to him. But he’s alone, and he’s quiet now, he’s reading the letter again and holding it to his heart. There’s a faint smile on his face, a little of her sparkle in his eyes.

He was hers, they already knew that. But now she was free, and he wanted her back. He wanted to hold her in his arms, never let her go, and say yes to all her questions.

Indeed it she was true, it truly never was in their fate to meet again.

He left the flowers next to her name, read,

“It was in peace, she left,
It was in love, she left,
It was sadly, in wait,
She left.”

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Waiting For My Tomorrow.

I feel like I’m in a music video. One in where I’m lying in bed, my eyes closed… My perfect red lips humming a tune, all the words perfectly lined and perfectly rhymed.
My hair is open, a wild mess around me. My eyes still calmly shut.
There’s a tune playing around me, a tune so perfect, it’s bringing out all your memories.
The tiny tear drops rolling down my cheek, each filled with a pain, a pain just too deep.
“I’ve hurt you a lot.” You say these words, nothing makes sense anymore.
“I’ll come see you.” I wonder when did I forget the meaning.
“I miss you.” Is this that empty feeling inside me ?
“Soon.” All watches stopped days ago, the days and months passing seem the same. I’m still stuck, stuck in that one day, when months ago, you told me you’d be here tomorrow.

Still waiting for tomorrow, with my eyes shut and my lips singing.

Ill be lying here till your lips kiss me awake. I’ll be singing here till your voice fills up the empty space. I’ll be crying here, till your hand finds my cheek.

An apology is overrated.

You, should be too.

I’m in a music video, one that’s just run too long. Soon I’ll wake up; it’ll be your eyes, your lips and your voice.

You’ve hurt me. You wonder.

Tomorrow. That’s all I’m dreaming about.

Time. Something we both find to be an enemy, you seem to have too little, and I seem to have too much. I wonder if you know what it’s like to wait, to hope, to wonder, and to be hopeful; to have too much time.

Tomorrow. That’s all I’m dreaming about.

Maybe then, words will have meaning again, and time, this painful old friend, will suddenly run too fast, only to remind me, time and again, of what is never going to be mine, from now, till the end of time. 

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Day 12

You cut the phone in a hurry. You had a flight to board. I sat in my room in silence.

“It’s only two weeks…” You said in irritation, Your mind already far far away from me.
I wanted to say a thousand words but I held my breath.
“Two weeks ….” I thought to myself. I saw a tear fall down my cheek in my faint reflection through the window.
It was late at night, I was surrounded by darkness and silence.
It’s in the deepest moment of silence in the night when the most painful memories come out.

One second, took no less than a thousand years to pass.

Before You knew it, You had landed back. Your message to me already typed out a million times in Your head – edited, reedited.. Until it was perfect, perfect for You.
You press send.

Two weeks.

I was staring out of the window, anyone would have thought me to have been in the same place for years now. The sun was hiding in the clouds, it was all grey. I looked out of the window; no thoughts, no pain, no memories. I finally seemed at peace.
Worried, but also more out of habit, no one came to disturb me these days. It was as if two weeks ago, I was another person… And today, I finally felt like Me.
No tears, no pain, no conversation, no thoughts… No words. It was just me, and the hiding sun.

My phone buzzed somewhere. I knew it was You. I knew You had a long apology, I knew You had missed me. I knew You had a lot of beautiful things to say – most of which would involve me. I knew every word of Yours, maybe before You had even felt it Yourself.
But I ignored the buzzing. I ignored the ringing of my phone, and concentrated hard on a fluffy white cloud that seemed to be taking the shape of a heart.

The phone continued to buzz.

The fluffy heart intrigued me. I was hypnotized.

The phone continued to buzz.

The fluffy heart began to move gently with the wind. I felt a slight panic in my own heart. The inevitable was happening. The clouds were shifting, the heart was breaking.

The phone continued to buzz.

The fluffy heart was now a million fluffy pieces. The tears were back, my soul, the emptiness, it was all returning. I was helpless.

The phone continued to buzz.

In a parallel universe, I cut all calls. Deleted all messages, and switched my phone off.

In a parallel universe, Your name faded away and the sun came brightly shining through.

In a parallel universe, You would always wonder, where You went wrong… Why she wasn’t answering… Was she alright ?

I picked up. I heard Your  voice. Two weeks of pain… Two weeks of solitude. Two weeks of sanity. I heard Your voice. I heard Your stories, I heard Your thoughts… I listened carefully, waiting for You to say what I’d been longing to hear.

“I wish I had You next to me.” I opened her eyes. I could hear You snoring gently on the phone… I looked up at the clouds, the fluffy broken pieces smiled to me sadly,

“I wish I had You next to me.”

I cut the phone.

In a parallel universe, I was smiling in my sleep.

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Day 13.

Day 13

I was going about this the wrong way, from the beginning. I was always there; I was always never going away. I was always telling him that I wasn’t going to leave him that I was always going to love him. I was always telling him what I wanted him to tell me all this while.

But I had to start at the end, my ending.

It was a long, cold, lonely night; a song played far away, the house was quiet, unlike everything inside me.

I’m on my knees,

Only memories,

Are left for me to hold.

Don’t know how,

But I’ll get by,

Slowly pull myself together.

There’s no escape,

So keep me safe,

This feels so unreal.

Nothing comes easily,

Fill this empty space,

Nothing is like it seems,

Turn my grief to grace.

I feel the cold,

Loneliness unfold,

Like from another world.

Come what may,

I won’t fade away,

But I know I might change.

Nothing comes easily,

Fill in this empty space,

Nothing is like it was,

Turn my grief to grace.

Nothing comes easily,

Where do I begin?

Nothing can bring me peace,

I’ve lost everything,

I just want to feel your embrace.

“I’m not going to be there anymore. I’m leaving.” She whispered.

“Where will you go?” He was sleepy, it was a long day, but something in her voice made him want to wake up and listen to her. The words were simply flying out of her, he tried to catch a few of them, put them all together in a sentence, but when he put it all together, it scared him.

It made him want to rush up to her, hold her close and tell her that he was there, and it was all going to be okay.

“But I can’t keep falling on to you, every time I’m scared or confused… You are not supposed to be there, all the time.” She continued. He knew he should listen to her, but what she said, it scared him.

“I am going away. This is my good-bye.

You can either choose to be there with me, in these last few days, or you can walk away today and know that this will be the last time we are speaking.” Her voice seemed too far away, it didn’t sound like her. He sat up right quickly.

“What are you saying?

What do you mean ‘good-bye’?”

“I want you to know that there is only one perfect way for me to find my perfect ending.

I have the perfect story, and now I know my perfect ending.

It starts at the end.” She wanted to say more, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

“Look, listen to me. It doesn’t have to be like this…” He started, but before she could interrupt him, he stopped talking himself. Who was he trying to convince ? She was not the same girl he had met, exactly one year ago today, she was broken. She was scared, hurt and her soul was broken.

“I want one night from you….” She started, “I want one night, I want you to look at me, like you used to. I want you to love me, like you used to… I want those memories, one last time. I want the strength to write my story.”

After a few more words, they hung up. He had said yes, agreed through his breaking heart to say yes to her. He couldn’t understand her, but he felt like somewhere, she didn’t know anything either.

She would leave, after writing her perfect story, in 13 days, she would love him and then leave. He tried to explain to her that he didn’t want her to go, but she reminded him, “I’m not yours to keep.” 

 

She woke up, took a cigarette from her bag and went to her terrace. That’s where it all started, and that’s where it all, will come to an end. She thought of the first time he held her hand, he kissed her, danced with her, looked deep into her eyes… It all happened here. This is what she needed to run away from, this empty terrace; this empty life.

She sat on the swing.

13 days. 

She would be ready. 

 

Her cries, echoing into the moonless night.

Nothing comes easily,

Fill in this empty space,

Nothing is like it was,

Turn my grief to grace.

Nothing comes easily,

Where do I begin?

Nothing can bring me peace,

I’ve lost everything,

I just want to feel your embrace.

 

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Find Your Beginning.

It starts off with shy quiet glances, whispers of promises made under the starry sky. Sometimes there’s more than just words for promises, sometimes there’s a ring, at times just a kiss. But what matters, what truly brings out the tears on a warm night, is the faint memories of the promise that comes back to haunt.

Days, months, even years pass us by, but memories and promises, that’s something you can’t hide, or even forget. There are times when promises are made in the heat of a moment, you lay your world out for someone else, you hold their hand and speak words that you know they are yearning for. And then just as quickly as you held on, you let go. You let go, and then you forget. You forget, that you gave them a world, a new beginning, more importantly, you showed them an end; a life that started and finished with you.

Your friends and you wonder, time has moved on, so then why hasn’t she? You’ve made new memories, maybe even new promises, so then why does she hold on?

She’s a lover. She’s a dreamer. She’s a writer.

In words she finds her calm, in her words she finds sanity, but in your words, she found love, hope, most importantly, a tomorrow.

Tell your friends, oh, before that, tell yourself. She’s left with the shy memories; you’ve gone on to your new ones. She’s left with the whispers and the promises; you’ve gone on to new horizons and lyrics. She’s left with the memory of your kiss; you’ve gone out…… She stops her thoughts.

Stop your thoughts.

Stop.

She wonders.

She wonders and wonders. She lets her book slip through her fingers, Veronika Decides to Die, and wonders, to stop your own thoughts. It almost feels like an ending, a perfect ending to haunting memories and hurtful broken promises.

An escape? Some would argue angrily.

An escape… Others would smile, maybe even in jealousy.

So she wonders, if you knew that you had only 13 days to remember, only 13 days left for all your memories, even the pain, everything; if it could all go away, would you take it? Would you walk away, forever?

She smiles.

She finds a pen, it’s time to start writing. Maybe she will call it, Day 13.

Maybe all this time, she got it wrong, the best story, her perfect story, it starts from the end.

It starts at Day 13. 

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