Tag: friends

Words that hold life together

Ante was the only guy I ever brought home. The only guy I wanted you to meet. The only guy who was worth it all. Worthy of meeting my Dad – that was the ultimate endeavour. I wasn’t scared or nervous. I felt like I was blessed to have crossed paths with a human like him. I was excited to show you what I saw, to show you how utterly beautiful people can be. I felt lucky too, because he chose to be my rock too. We were inseparable. To me, that was what life is supposed to look like. He was someone I loved unconditionally and who loved me back. Until something changed, but that had zero effect on anything. I still loved him and I’ll love him forever.

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Forever

This word “forever”… It never sat right with me. As a writer – someone who loves words, respects their meaning and their weight, I’m not satisfied until I understand what they mean in practice, and until I make sense of them. Until then, those words are empty and deceitful. Call it what you want, but I require proof that they mean what they say and say what they mean – no sugar coating, no alternative interpretations, no clinging to hope that they’re true and real. No abstraction. “Forever” was hard to get a grip on. That’s too long. It’s not realistic. Forever is something we cannot have. It doesn’t exist in terms of time. There’s an end to absolutely everything.

Hope

“Hope” is the second on the list. The trickster. It’s too unstable, too fragile, invisible, betralay-prone. It refuses to offer any gurantee whatsoever. It’s bold in assuming it works, and mean for playing with your mind. We have invented the word for times we have no direction, times we can’t see what’s in front of us, let alone what’s years ahead. It’s purpose is to comfort. All it brings me is anxiety. Promise, I can understand.

Blessed

Counting down to: “Blessed”. How do I know I’m blessed? In what moments does the acknowledgement come? Compared to what? Fucked? In truth, I’m not at such odds with this word. I have come to understand it a long time ago. The gist of it goes something like this: You will fall down on your knees, and hard, more times than you could ever dodge or anticipate. Some cuts and bruises will never heal. Managing to go through pain until you unreadily order yourself to pick yourself up, get yourself together, get up and start walking into the unknown again – those are the moments you know you are blessed. I just wish there were more blessings, because if you stop seing the point in getting up, you’re fucked. The opposite of blessed. That one I understand.

Luck

And it’s always your choice. Or is it? Here comes the word that is cute, but sometimes I want to punch all her teeth out. “Luck”. I am not sure why it’s a “she”. It sounds like a she. However, in honour of the 21st century, human evolution, collective spiritual growth and elevation, I’ll refer to words as “it” from now on. Hey Luck! Where are you when we need you? Why are you holding out? Why are you picking and choosing? What are you? Something we have to deserve? What does it take? Luck, I think we still have unresolved issues.

So… When you talk to me, you better know I’m paying attention.

I will love you forever.

And I hope that one of these days, someone will make a promise and follow through.

How blessed am I to be living and feeling, while the two of you… Where are you now?

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Love on standby

I have written about many things, published them, unpublished them, then deleted them forever. Even though I can write about anything, the strongest urge to write always came when it concerned matters of the heart.

I’ve been attempting to understand it all: self-pitty, self-worth, healing, the actions of the other party, my actions, whys and why nots, etc… After all that analysis, I am certain I know what love is supposed to feel like, and that no further analysis can make it happen to me, at least not until it’s time, or not at all, if it’s not a part of my destiny.

And so it is not what I will be yapping about this time. Techically, I will. It will be about a different kind of love. In fact, the kind that shaped my repeating patterns and created regrets, that I activelly have to keep at bay.

I don’t know when you left. It could have been at night on Nov 9th or in the morning of Nov 10th. How differently would I feel if I knew that?
I wasn’t there. Mom wasn’t there. Your son wasn’t there. Only Zara was there, by your side, as she had been for years, especially since Luna left too.

I know you want to talk, but it’s finally my turn. This is the Hello and Goodbye I never got a chance to say. Just listen. Please, for once. For a change.

You don’t know me. Why didn’t you want to know me?

And yet, you knew me better than anyone when it truly mattered, while I knew you better than anyone at any point in time. Growing up with you was traumatic and toxic. Paired with Mom, life was a sequence of fear, lies, avoidance, rebellion, then courage to walk away. I knew I had to, from a very early age. Maybe it was because I have always been different, but maybe it was because of you. I realized that if I wanted something to change, it was on me to make it happen.

I could not rely on you to provide for your family. I knew you wouldn’t help financially, because you have been sitting in your room for about 30 years. The most ironic thing you said a few times was: “If I had the money, I’d give it all to you.” No shit?! Is that how it goes? The part you chose to stay blind to was that making money takes some sort of action, and we both knew you’d never act.

If I had to describe you with one word, it would be: words. You talked the talk, never willing to walk the walk. And boy, talked you did. Mom and Brother kept saying how smart you are, how knowledgeable about so many topics. My response has always been, that’s worthless, if your only ambition is having someone to talk at. Not to and not with. At. Embarassingly so. I still suffer the consequences of not knowing how to walk away from the grip you so skilfully tightened around unsuspecting victims.

In those moments, I learned so much about human nature. It is extremely hard to interrupt someone, because we are wired to be polite. But you… Oh man, you had the capacity to talk at someone for hours. At first, I would nod, because there was nothing else I could have done. There was no pause for me to take advantage of and give you my opinion, because that was never the purpose of your interactions. You never wanted a dialogue. Your biggest and only wish was to be heard. Nodded at sufficed. I would tear my cuticles under the table, because your favourite subject was politics. You were a rightist and, in case I haven’t made it clear enough, you didn’t give a shit about what I thought. If you wanted a reaction at all, you wanted me to agree with you. If not politics, you mocked and berated everyone.

I still fuck with my cuticles. As a grown woman. How fucking embarassing is that I cannot stop? When you’d notice, you’d mockingly ask: “Is it tasty?” You never had the capacity to understand the reasons why, or perhaps you didn’t want to open that Pandora’s box. Even if you did, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t tell you the truth, because I knew it wouldn’t make one bit of a difference, and I was afraid of the same box. Nothing would change. Nothing ever did. I would just stop until you were out of sight and restart.

Was it all bad? I’ll delve as deep as I can and let you know that no, it wasn’t, but it was bad enough that when you left, I knew it’s what you waited for.

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