For a true writer each book should be a new beginning where he tries again for something that is beyond attainment. He should always try for something that has never been done or that others have tried and failed. Then sometimes, with great luck, he will succeed.

-Ernest Hemingway

Sometimes when I sit to write, I realize there is nothing that the ones before me haven’t touched or had forgotten to write about, it strikes me then, that how large and old the world is, it already contains not just all that I have felt but also what I have seen other’s feel with intensities I can’t fathom. The entire universe of sentiments and sensations, containing galaxies of hearts-some small, some large and stars of thoughts-some too bright yet some dimmed, is somehow conceived in this world. If I have felt it then surely they have somewhere, at some time written about it.

But then, on a second thought, it also makes me wonder that maybe the world is indeed small in its vastness, small enough for all the lives ever lived on this planet to be contained together, to be connected in this strange awe striking manner. What we feel has been felt by someone, somewhere, at sometime or maybe our hearts are beating the same this very moment. We are woven together by the same thread, this world is not, but a web of this chain and we are the ignorant beads caught in it at blinding distance. It’s more like we are on different thread of the same staircase trying desperately to reach on the same floor. Yet only some make it there, some fall midway while some give up and settle on a lower level. We are the different books belonging to a certain series, written by the same Author. I believe that God is an unbelievably creative author, for He just expresses the same things but in different ways. The ink is same but the words are different. He is repetitive in a way that he wraps the same gift in different gift wraps. The gift of life! And if you not smart, then you would be fooled. I know what jealously is or what ambition is, I have known despair and hurt and everything ever written about, but then my story is nowhere near any character or person. Those stories reflect the story of the men before me. I am the first and last me. My life is the only edition of a brand new story. And that is when I realize the importance of telling “my story”, for that is the only thing new that I can write. It’s the only new thing I can ever give to this old world. And so here it goes.

 It was 30th November, I remember the Goosebumps and the tremor that I had experienced when I saw this name pop up on my desktop, I had waited hopelessly and helplessly to see his name pop on my screen ever since we had parted for good. But when it actually did, I was numb, life left me and death beheld me. I had too much to say, as usual, but then I realized he probably had better things to do for he didn’t seem as interested and enthusiastic as he once did. My heart was tussling against my chest wanting to be set free from all the pains and aches it was enduring. It was wailing and banging and kicking. Its turmoil and struggle was suffocating my lungs making it hard for me to breathe. The pain was not just in my mind and soul but it was also physical. My limbs were melting in the late November coldness. All those promises we had made to each other when we bled through the blessed wound of cupid’s arrow, too unknown to the change of our hearts that the fate encloses, rushed back to me and collided head on with my sanity and self-control. I was losing a war that I was trying hard to ignore. I wasn’t ready to fight, I wasn’t ready to face, I was still searching for my armour when his arrow left his bow; I was still searching for a whetstone while he broke open the door with sword in his hand. I was still searching for my anchor; when strong wind came and snatched me away from everything I called home. I was still searching for my fickle faith!

Anyhow after a month of silence that had settled on the still open pages of our separate books, we tried to blow it away with words, awkward words. We were two very different books yet somehow our author chose for us to share a common chapter. While once our differences pulled us in a weird web of attraction woven by curiosity, now it only makes it impossible for us to connect. I guess we fell in love with the idea of who we thought the other to be and when time uncovered reality, we were lost about how to handle it. New found love is always a fairytale; I guess the nightmare begins when we start discovering what we have found. We held back more feelings than the words that we exchanged. And then suddenly, he said my name.

My name didn’t sound like it belongs to me. It was the most foreign sound to my virgin ears. Its invasion tore something within me. The ache and pain were equally strange and unreal. The only difference is that this intercourse didn’t ever lead to pleasure. The pain never subsided and the invasion never felt like anything more than an intrusion to my soft and innocent heart.

He had never even once called me by my official name since we became close friends, I still remember the only time that he ever called me by my name was when he was mad at me and that had made me cry.  The time when he used to address me with my official name was when we were still strangers; the irony didn’t fail on me. And the truth hit me hard right on my face and heart. Every delusion that my heart ever held on to for the sake of what we had shared was now shattered by just one word, was shattered by my own name, by my own identity.

Oh!

 Dear you,

They say that in order to move on, I should hate you. Should judge you for all the wrongs you did and blame you for the weaknesses I once accepted you with. For they said you would have already done so in your heart. But then hating him for “betraying” her by dying was exactly what didn’t let her move on after him. Acceptance if not the ideal forgiveness is what I believe is the key to move on. But then acceptance is hard.

Accepting that you did not just ever love me but also that you will never feel remorse in breaking me,

Or that you will never ache for the loss of me,

Or that you will never grow old telling teenagers about how you loved me once and then lost me and then always missed me and cried for me,

Or that I was never “the one” for you,

Or just accepting that someday you will tell your children about how when their mom came along she helped you understand why it never worked out with me or the others (while I fear I will still be mourning what we couldn’t have),

Or just learning about how you tell others about how I was just a mistake, is not just the hardest but the most painful thing I would ever have to do. It will always hit me hard and clear. It shall always destroy what it couldn’t shatter in the last encounter. Knowing that I am nothing more than a page that you carelessly missed and never cared to trace back crushes my heart and all it fantasies. Things were just memories but you made them eternal for me but seeing that I clearly was nothing more than a deed of a moment never meant to be recorded in your timeline is soul wrenching. You were my muse but I was nothing but another pen that you replaced with the new one with time. You were clay that time would have molded perfectly to personify all my dreams, though it’s funny how you looked down upon me as nothing but mere mud in your shoes. Oh, While I mourned our parting you got rid of me.

Rumours tell me that you have moved on, and while my senses nods in affirmation and brain flashes an “I told you so” glare, my heart, while in all its senses refuses to believe. I know not if I am naïve or just madly in love with the remnant of what we couldn’t have but one thing I know for sure- that I sold away all my sanity the moment I traded love with you. It’s funny that it’s now I realize that love is not meant to be traded but shared. I lament over the fact that I have lost you, but then voices tell me that I never had you. You were always hers and in some drowsy state when my guardian angel failed on alertness, the hell came loose and a dark worshipper played muse for my heart to write poetry that shall make fate lend you to me. I never bought you I just paid the price to borrow you from her. And when the final knell broke in the hell and the fate whistled, time laid down my destruction and you went back to her.

 

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