Having already deleted them from its phonebook, my Nokia didn't recognize those numbers.
Having spent a year and a half conversing with them, I did.
And so I went out of the room and answered that call. I listened to you as you recounted how you'd read those notes, those many many notes which I wrote ceaselessly over the course of my stay in Australia. I remember you crying, remember the emotion in your quivering voice.
And I remember the venom which triggered my response: the disillusionment of being let go, the pain of being left in the dark, the defeat for which I never expected but in hindsight should've seen coming.
I remember spitting out those caustic replies, those sarcastic words and phrases borne of weeks of pent up frustration.
I remember how quickly your sorrow turned to anger, how viciously you responded.
I remember pressing the button which cut you off.
Most of all, I remember masking the hollow sense of victory I experienced. I remember how I returned to the bunk, full of exuberance and self-praise. I remember how as the night went quiet and the world lay still, I lay awake with emotions roiling in my chest. I thought then that this was my riposte of victory. I believed then that I could move on. And as anyone who has read this journal from start to finish will know, I've come to find that I've believed in a great many wrongs in my life.
-
It's been close to four years now. It feels like... it should be a lifetime ago. But it isn't, and for reasons which I've yet to unearth, I still think of you from time to time. Some nights when I sit alone, ensconced by the gray trails of cigarette smoke, I find myself running online searches for you. I'm curious as to how you're doing... But I don't know why, and I don't know why I bother. It feels as though I wish to one day stand in front of you, wrapped in glories and basking in adulation from others. It's as though I've something to prove to you, when in fact I haven't.
I know you probably don't care. I know that you've moved on and left this all behind you. So why haven't I?
I say I've moved on, and I believe I've moved on. But on nights like these I question my beliefs. I question the reasons for my existence, the futures that lay in front of me. I ask if the responsibilities I've chosen to bear are truly the things which make me happy. And I can't help but wonder what things would've been like if we'd worked out.
Is this what first love is like? A poison you introduce into your system but can't remove? Everyone seems to have moved on, save me.
I wonder what it'd be like if our paths were to cross again. Would you look away and feign ignorance? Would you pretend nothing ever happened? Would we descend into trivialities and idle banter? Would we be upfront about the ghosts of our... my... past?
Or are these all questions better reserved for myself?
Closure seems a misnomer. Could things be any better if we one day became friends? Would I feel happier if you were dead? Both notions seem equally unappealing. No sequence of acts, no chain of events seems able to erase this corruption embedded in my heart. It does truly feel as though a part of my life has become alienated from who I am and what I stand for. A vacuum of empty space stands where 'us' used to be, and for some reason it saddens me to recognize its existence.
On nights like these, I wonder if I can ever be whole again. And upon finding no answers, I choose to run. And run. And run.
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