The monotany of Heartache

They say youth is wasted on the young. I cannot say whether I agree or not. What I can say is that I am so tired of the fear that resides in my young heart. The fear to just let go.

 I am painted so thin that even the fragments of my soul feel the gnawing angst of it all. They say jealousy is never the right shade for anyone, but it’s a colour I find myself these days. I wish I had the courage to fight for what I want, but the consequences of such choices haunt me... the same as the cold and hollow echoes of your footfall; a sound I once loved so well.

Now please don’t think this a melodramatic attempt to breathe life into a dead horse, or to get you understand/ feel for anything for me. I am writing my thoughts down, sending them out in hopes to release my mind from the insanity that plagues me. Today I know what it feels like to be kept on a tight leash. I am only allowed to care when you deem it fit. But the truth is I stopped loving you in those moments when you said:

“Let’s not talk about this,” or “try and focus on other things,” or “I can’t deal with this right now,” or “try and get a hobby.”

Worst still, is the stagnant silence that had left me raw, because you were not ready to face the reality of me. Me—the one person who picked you up when you were down. The one who would never let you fall, who held your hand and gave you hope. Could you have a little time for me? You used to be so excited to be near me.

In those moments I stopped loving you. I inconvenience you, yet how about how you inconvenience me? Have you spared some thought to that?

You see the monotony of heartache is what drives those who are broken-hearted cold. It is not the desire for a second chance, nor is it the longing for a returned love... or even the hope that one day a dream will merge with reality. It is just that dull ache that seemingly has no cure. It is the constant circle of hurt, determination to get better and failing-to-get-better-and-ending-up-hurting-again that frustrates the broken-hearted. It is not about getting over you, because I have done that, it’s about killing a dream that you have inspired in me; one that I have nurtured and loved. It is about taking you into to me and then having to kill it; because the world tells me it is wrong... you tell me it’s wrong.  It is about realising the thing you are fighting for will never grow to fight for you. It is about learning that you are not good enough...for someone to love and to sacrifice for. It is about learning the true face of loneliness and realising that it is your own, because the hardest part for me is learning to be okay alone, with myself.

The monotony of heartache is the losing of oneself in the process of loving another and when that love ends or is not wanted, and the finding of oneself again. Where do I start? I don’t remember the way back. You’ve sent me away and I have gone, but to a place I do not know. I thought I knew you so well...but we are strangers in the night, our skin—our souls are stranger still. I speak your name and ‘nothing’ flows through my veins. I break, I fall, I cry, I call...only to realise that the truth is that you do not think of me. You have never considered me. The truth is that I have failed.

The monotony of heartache is the filtering of real life; as you are never quite there...drifting in fields of dreams... isolated from living, breathing, being. You will never hear the secret conversations I have had with you in my mind, or the countless fights and magical adventures we have had. You will never know how many times I have defended you. How my body was moved by your touch. You will never hear my moonlight confession. Instead all you will see is the fool I have come to be. A shadow of what I was before.

The monotony of heartache is the quickening in me to escape from you. I do not love you. I merely mourn for the person I saw in you. I mourn for the parts of me you will never see, I mourn for the dreams that still haunt me. I mourn for the hope you’ve extinguished in me. I mourn for me.

The monotony of heartache is the wake of the memory of you and mourning of me.