A long short story

How can I justify a greed for the unknown?
Well, it combines two misfortunes: ignorance and deprivation.

I want to be close enough to know what exists, but far enough to suffer alone without humiliation.
August 2014. “Is there anything out there that I cannot enjoy?”

The details of your beauty are too rich to be memorized at all times. I recall them a second, and forget them the next. Then comes the reconstruction.

Every time I see you, I get to be amazed by your beauty as if I have never seen you before. And every time, my heart beat accelerates trying to carry me next to you.
September 2014. “Unsent messages of a troubled lover (1)”

My pain, my pleasure. My share of heaven, and my due of hell. You have given me the highest amount of hope and fear.
September 2014. “Unsent messages of a troubled lover (2)”

See, the problem is, moths do not understand that they cannot acquire the light, and they keep crashing into it over and over and over. You might say I just need to “unlove” you, and to move on. But, see, the problem is, even if you were the most narcissistic woman, you will never have the slightest idea of the effect you have on me, and on every other moth
September 2014. “Unsent Messages of a troubled lover (3)”

I am aware of how my deceptive mind will tell me I will find someone like you, even though you are one-in-a-universe, one-in-an-eternity, One and only, unmatched and incomparable.
September 2014. “Unsent messages of a troubled lover (4)”

I will try to not talk about you, although I see you in the sun and the moon, in other women as the ideal they are trying to achieve (and are falling short of), and in other men as either their most valuable victory, their most humiliating defeat, or, for the unlucky ones, their most depriving ignorance.
October 2014. “An attempted closure”

I looked at you, but you only saw me. The way a falling leaf is seen this time of the year.

You were there, prettier and further from reach than ever. I was there falling all over again, as if I were seeing you for the first time.
October 2014. “The laws of probability”

My loneliness made me feel the length of nights,
and my conscience made me notice their gloominess,
and in a night as long and gloomy as tonight, I find myself surrounded by the most hideous of memories.
March 2015. “Nights like this”

Sleep does not tempt a heart whose ailment was longing.
The night is long, and I can think of you for eternity.
And if I silence my thoughts, I would still hear my heart knocking rapidly on a door that will never open.

Oh heart: die or beat slower. Let us rest either forever, or for tonight.
June 2015. “The memory of you, and a long night”

Oh, how far do you seem to me now.
Were you only in my imagination?
We will never meet, but have we ever met?
Have we ever met, my love? Have we ever met?
September 2015. “Memory or imagination?”

There is always an end, and it will only be when I can’t see those stars anymore.
Not like an unwatered plant that died of thirst. But like perfume that has completely spread into the air, becoming an infinitesimal part of it, but a part nonetheless.
February 2016. “The stars that rose above us both”

[The easiest part] is seeing you genuinely happy.
Why should it bother me?
Maybe it is something close to the definition of jealousy.

“Such is love; the easiest part of it is most difficult.”
June 2016. “The easiest part”

I look at you, and I avert my eyes.
I look at the sky, pretty beyond description and far beyond reach.
August 2016. “An unfortunate night”

It’s been two years, and I still remember the late days of August and the early days of September.
It’s wrong to remember after this much time, I admit.
That is why I fear time; not because it will make me forget you, but because it makes it more wrong to remember you.
But I ask of you: Do you remember when I said that the moon reminds me of you?
Time will pass, and I will be defeated.
I’ll see nothing in the moon except an ordinary planet, nothing in this Tuesday except a random Tuesday, and nothing in you except memories of feelings.
August 2016. “A random Tuesday”

Nothing remains but memories of feelings.

It must be part of the classic procedure. If the apology is pure, after it comes nothing.
September 2016. “A pure apology”

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A Pure Apology

Nothing remains but memories of feelings. And only now do I have a more objective view, perhaps (somewhat) similar to yours.

I still remember you on occasion, when the moon is especially bright, or when the night is especially dark and missing something.

This is a pure apology; nothing but an admittance of guilt and an expression of regret.

I am sorry.

I guess this is the classic procedure, how things like this end; nothing out of the ordinary. Many stages, but at the end is a pure 100% apology. A letter devoid of anything but guilt, regret, and memories. A letter so unlike anything I have written for you in the past.
But I stand by my apology, I was wrong and I regret having written any of them.

It’s a near impossible task for me to write more, though I want to express more. I want to remain in touch, if only by writing letters that you cannot read. But how do I address you? A past lover, or a past opponent? A stranger ? but I cannot see you as a stranger anymore.

It must be part of the classic procedure. If the apology is pure, after it comes nothing.

 

By everything

Barely conscious, but barely able to feel any kind of pain.
Only the essential pains I feel.

By God, by every divine and undivine being, I will not remain helpless towards my own life.
By all the angels that have guided me when I was once worthy, and by all the devils that grasp my mind today. By myself, by everything.

I swear, and swearing is meant to be most honest.
I swear and all of those testify.

On an indeterminate day, at an indeterminate time, I will be most determined, as determined as a living thing can be.

Clocks, bells, and footsteps

All I hear are clocks, and bells, and footsteps of people moving away.
All I see is the height of my shadow, the closeness of the sun to ending the day.

There is not enough air to relax my chest,
and not enough words for what I wanted to say.

Everything is short between a beginning and an end.
If it’s not eternal, it ends when it begins.

It’s the hour, it’s time.
It went so fast, and I would have done a million different things.

Goodbye, goodbye. Forgive me, and I wrong a lot. Wish me happiness, lie to me.

An Attempted Closure

[Deleted on 01/17/2015]

[Restored on 04/17/2016]

I think: One campus, I am there and you are there. Between us are constants (like our schedules), probability laws (how likely I am to randomly see you), your aversion to me, and a legal document dictating that I am not to contact you in any shape or form.

On my own, I figured there should be no physical mention of you anymore. My broken pieces have not been moved since you left them. I thought if you did not like their original form, there was no point of reassembling them and finding that their cracks have made them even less valuable and less likely to impress you. To reiterate on what you already know is repetition, and I want to spare you and myself that. Of course, I have moved some of the smaller shards I’ve found through the mess, just to be at least doing something. I did not seek to reconstruct myself out of them but I needed at the very least a functional body. In those smaller shards I learned new things that, while not repetitive, must never be told to anyone. If you doubt my judgment, listen to this one: I became incapable of finding beauty in any female anymore, because I judge beauty with you as the standard. (I told you, nobody ever needs to know about those ugly shards).

In short, if I talk anymore I would either bore you, or disgust you.

I will try to not talk about you, although I see you in the sun and the moon, in other women as the ideal they are trying to achieve (and are falling short of), and in other men as either their most valuable victory, their most humiliating defeat, or, for the unlucky ones, their most depriving ignorance.

To me, this is no easy task because I have some unanswered questions. Why? Would you have said yes in other circumstances? Is it something fundamental about me that cannot be changed?

For a while, I thought if you answered my questions I would be able to move on. But it is obvious to me now that my questions are similar to what a kid would ask if he didn’t get to do something. If they were answered, he would ask more and more endlessly, and he would only stop when he is told “yes.”

Of us, there will be no memory, except for legal papers (our names next to each other were a pleasant sight, despite their surroundings) and your bothered message that I have accepted as my share of you.

Of you, there will forever be a memory as an extreme of sadness as you are of beauty.

I could regret everything, but I accept it as the cost of being aware of you.

Unsent messages of a troubled lover (what remained of the bits and pieces)

I sent her my notes, and she missed the three classes after that so far. Those were her first absences, and I know that because I have checked up on her everyday.

I was puzzled: Did she leave because of me or for other reasons? If she left because of me, was she bothered or in pain just like me? But it was all irrelevant. I have lost her forever. She took away the only medium of our meeting.

After I sent the notes, I imagined the worst scenario to be that she would show up and pretend like she’s read nothing. I realize now that that would have been heaven. The worst scenario is the one she’s chosen: For our story to end before it begins, just like an aborted child, or a seed that couldn’t reach the surface. I know I got carried away, but I have a good justification. My gut feeling which I have always trusted, was usually laid back. Never before has it pushed to sit next to someone, to talk to them, to be silly only in order to initiate something (anything), to ask them out in front of a fairly large group of observers. It gave me the illusion of confidence. I was certain that my gut feeling has only awaken this time because there was something.

My hope now is simply to get to see her again on campus. Not as strangers, as we used to be, but as love and admiration on one side and hate and disgust on the other. I don’t even hope for eye-contact, I simply want to see her acting like herself as a neutral observer.

The first thing I wrote, one week after I have seen her for the first time: “A spark. A candle in a dark desert night. A feeling of weightlessness, of floating in the air. An ability to feel the blood traveling through every cell. A primal instinct guiding every thought, decision, and action.”

“One key ingredient of so-called experience is the delusional faith that it is unique and special, that those included in it are privileged and those excluded from it are missing out” -Jennifer Egan, A Visit From The Goon Squad

“Where are you hiding, Dolores Haze?

Why are you hiding, darling?

(I talk in a daze, I walk in a maze,

I cannot get out, said the starling.)” -Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

I have changed my pen to a pencil, and retired the clothes I wore when she said no. Weak attempts to feel less helpless.

The next two days [after she rejected me] were cold and rainy, I deserved neither warmth nor comfort.

I said “I want to be close enough to know what exists, but far enough to suffer alone without humiliation” and I was shown both, the pinnacle of female beauty and the pinnacle of male suffering.