Years ago, I used to write a blog, a bit more intricate, a bit less concrete, and a bit easier to update than this one, because it was written in a diary format. I wrote almost every single day, it wasn’t much of a chore, my mind was urging me to write. There was no other way. I was filled with a very unique type of sadness, the sadness that differs from the day to day apathy. My first post was called ‘The End‘ and written in the following words:
”Don’t say too much, say just enough…or barely anything actually. Just. Enjoy. This. Don’t speak, unless it’s to say something that has nothing to do with anything. Shades of purple and green projected on the immense monuments, we walk the dark hills…And I feel alone in the universe with you. ‘I love you,’ I whispered, and it got to your end of the echoing monument, you laughed and whispered it back…it echoed. We walked through statues, views of bridges and cities, rivers, galleries…stray cats. A gazillion of stars were lighting up the sky. ‘The flickering star is mars’, you told me. It felt like this was the very first date, the one we never had, or should have had. We both had a cold, walking in our recycled clothes, and our messy locks. I was never one to pay attention to apparence, and neither were you. ‘Let’s go’ you said abruptly, as I was enjoying the sounds and the lights, and the images that were being projected. My bus came right away, you kissed me goodnight, and we parted…We always hated parting before tonight. On my way back, I tried spotting Mars. It looked closer than ever, from this side of the river.”
I documented that heartbreak, practically every single day. Gradually, with time, the theme progressed. It wasn’t my first relationship, nor was it the longest, but something about it made it the most intense one in my mind. Perhaps it was the state that I was in, that I never found myself in again. The hopelessness, the tears, the emptiness, the darkness were all novel, and I explored them in full consciousness, rehearsing the same idea over and over again, in words and posts all different from one another, until there was nothing left to explore.
Perhaps my love for that person was simply based on the novelty of those emotions and nothing else. I haven’t felt that broken ever since. A part of me misses the fullness felt in my stomach, the nights spent sleeping next to my housemate because I couldn’t bear to sleep alone, it misses the pain that lasted longer than the ‘love’ itself did, it misses how every sad song intensified the sadness to a point of feeling unable to handle the rush of nothingness navigating its way through my brain and manifesting itself in my every gesture and my every sight.
In hindsight, I cannot quite tell if it was having my heart broken, or just the overactive 22 year old mind of mine, but one day in the summer, on a bus in Ireland, I found myself changed. As if the two seasons spent mourning over the potential pretence of something have altered the composition of my every cell. I had metamorphosed. And so, although years have erased those feelings, and I tell that story in a comical and rather satirical tone to my friends now, those two seasons during that one year were the most defining two seasons in the last decade of my life. It was then that everything I once knew about myself, about life, about love, about the world had departed me, and I was left in a quasi tabula rasa state of affairs. That feeling and realisation was worth every second of darkness.