History: By and For the Survivors

If the following words sound familiar, it’s because they are nearly identical to a post from nearly six months ago. History can be a slippery thing, but three things are for certain: it repeats itself, it is by and for the survivors, and only reveals its truth in time. Corrie and I have decided to, for reasons that are clear but by no means satisfying or comforting, go our separate ways.

Feelings are mutually opposed to history; the former fluctuates and the latter sits like stone. But one unlikely similarity, undeniably, is shared: they both repeat.

How I Imagine Her

Her words, when true, are spoken softer. Aware of the pain inherent in such honesty, she delivers them with certain tenderness. And while she knows such courtesies are not necessary, she remembers that sometimes truth, regardless of volume, will eternally echo in a yawning canyon of loneliness.

And when all her words have been exhausted, words we’ve spoken before under the same blank stare of the stars, she sits silently, listening to her hearts measured beat. It stretches and bends, but does not tear; her rhythm is strong. The persistent sound arrests her and ironically reminds her she is going to live. At least that’s how I imagine her.

Of course, I imagine lots of things these days. The certain loneliness she finds at the bottom of her coffee cup. Or the ticking of raindrops softly falling in the early morning, which makes her smile. Even the shadows on her face that are never fully chased away even by the hardest of laughter. Most of all, I imagine her being happy.

Last night, as her words fractured their way into my heart and sadness washed over me, filling the splinters caused by her decision, I was overcome by a most unusual feeling. The thread of anticipation, which had woven its way through my body, was cut, and slowly the unraveling began. I am alive, unmended, and unmade.

A wave of resentment traced over me leaving only drops of sorrow to cloud my eyes. They were like lenses that made me see things I did not want to see. I saw the all night conversations we would never have; the laughs we would never share; the moonlight which beneath we’d never dance. Such mad thoughts; how can one miss a future that never will exist!

A future constructed on the foundation of the past is not one that will crumble, but rather one that will never stand. The last thing I saw was our future slowly vanish like someone walking away into a thick fog.

I imagine her listening to the sound our laughter once made. I imagine her trying to catch ladybugs. I imagine the notes I once played her still ringing in her ears. I imagine her reading these words quietly, understanding, smiling sadly.

Most of all, I imagine her being happy.