i thought of making another blog, starting a story from scratch, erasing the past i had myself forgotten; but i couldn’t. i couldn’t think of what to call it, couldn’t make my own words, having used yours for so long.
so, still, i write to you, though you are mine. i still write to you for who else could I write to, who else makes my heart slurp up the blood quite so greedily, who else can take the whole of me with one look? if he exists, and doubtless he does, i haven’t found him yet.
you swept me off my feet watching sunrises by my side in the train, gaze lingering to my thighs, lips ready to go for the jugular. you courted me through the snow, waiting for my other loves to die a natural death. you won me, fair and square, because it was i who awakened the predator in you and blood-lust blinkered you. i let you into the darkest part of me and you took me but if you stopped loving me, i would stop loving you. i must admit, there are nights when i wonder what that pain would feel like.
over time, i understood i never meant to be the best, only desired. i’m not ashamed of that – all that we are, all that we have stems from desire. the instinct to conquer is stronger than the instinct to love. you should know that because i don’t miss X and Y. you should know that because i still write. you should know that because once in a while i tell you that i don’t believe in love.
i’m that girl you met all those years ago that told you i was gonna fuck a lotta guys, just different.
through my paperround last year i met a wonderful man. he used to walk his dog as i’d deliver papers and we started talking around the time i started writing this blog. i think he’s 82: he must have mentioned it a while back. and i’m afraid there’s nothing literary about him: his existence is one of uncouth coutesy.
i quit the paperround a while back now but i still see him every sunday. nine o’clock in the morning, like church. he’s my little christian connection: even S is nowhere near taking his place. he gave me a bible with a picture of him in his youth stuck at the back, so that i remember him. secretly, i think, he believes that it will help me find him in heaven: he believes i will go there after all.
to my friends, this man is “the old man”. to me, he is much more than that. it may be true that i meet him every sunday partly because i feel like it’s my obligation, but also because somewhere beneath my skin there’s a tendon that connects me to him.
his wife died last night. or the night before that. and there’s no more words because i’m hurting for him. because how can one even begin to describe his pain?
i had made them a card only this march: they celebrated their 60th wedding annivesary.
sometimes he told me he wondered if she ever loved him but i know that was only because he loved her more than anything else. ever.
and it’s a little late for him to tell her, but i hope she knew. i think she knew.
Posted in chapters of my life
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once this was my safe haven.
that changed, like everything changes, life swirling us all about in a glass of rosé or champagne, or cheap white wine, if you’d rather.
and i notice that i’ve become agreeable, but no more than that. i’m still all here, all me.
and then on tuesday the rainbow of my life seemed to have been broken up into the component colours and merged together, forming black.
is black a colour? i don’t know. all i know is, i couldn’t possibly write on tuesday or wednesday. or yesterday even. but with time comes acceptance. so here i am now, accepting my failed anonymity.
Y has read my diary, this. every word, or most, violated with his eyes.
and i asked him not to.
i asked everyone close to me not to read it. everyone complied. but him.
i didn’t send a link. i didn’t tell him the name i assumed or the posts i’ve written. i merely read him a poem.
the last poem i had written here, trace of us.
i didn’t read it so he would find me. i never thought he would.
i read it because i felt like i needed to read it to someone and you wasn’t here. i read it because it was about him.
next thing i know, or rather remember, someone, and it could have been anyone but something tells me it was him, typed trace and put the cork essence of us blog into google.
he found me.
he was the only person i read that poem to. the only one. and it can’t have possibly been anyone else.
the search was done less than an hour after i read him the poem.
and though i didn’t start the blog for him or X or you even, i thought of deleting it or not writing any more.
but in the end, i haven’t started this blog for him so what if he reads it?
i haven’t started this blog for him and he won’t be the reason i end it.
Posted in chapters of my life
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