6, 576, 358, 816 and counting.

6, 576, 358, 816 and counting. That was the current estimated world population as of today. That's quite a lot of people, and over a given lifetime I suppose you would interact with a mere handful of those in the grand scheme of things. Of those, each one would be a unique and distinct individual, and for better or worse your life would be changed (to varying degrees) for having met them. So out of all those six and half billion or so people, why does only one of them exert such power over me? Why does that one person haunt me so? What poisonous compulsion is this that causes me to dwell upon equal parts melancholy and bittersweet, of times that seemed happy but are now so far away? I can feel the first twinges of self-pity tugging at the back of my heart and mind, threatening to pull me back into the murk I wallowed in for so many years, and I don't want to go there. I can hear the dark shadows and grim angels of my baser nature whispering of the sweet oblivion of despair, and I try to shut them out for the waste of time that they are. Think on brighter and better things, then. All this will pass, and tomorrow is another day.

V for V-Day

Well, it's just about that time of year again: V-Day. It's one of the hardest days to get through for me, not that any of the others have been particularly easy, but sometimes it's tough. I know far worse things are happening on a far greater scale all around the world and that I do not have a monopoly on anguish and despair by any means, but it's tough to watch all the shiny, happy people float around in their supposed conjugal bliss with whatever form of relationship they happen to be in at the moment. It's tough because I used to count myself among their ranks at one time, flying along on a blind high not really caring about what was next, content in the fact that someone once repeatedly told me she loved me and convinced me that she meant it (even if, retroactively, apparently she never did at all). Maybe it wouldn't be so tough if I didn't know any better, if I didn't know what I was potentially missing; as whoever said it's better to have loved and lost...was very wrong. In this case, ignorance might indeed have been bliss. The ease with which some of us can conveniently edit out inconvenient parts of our history as a fleeting annoyance or minor irritant is a little surprising, although I suppose it's not that hard if said experience never meant anything to you at all in the first place. But no matter what kind of retroactive spin she might choose to put on it now, it did mean something to me, and I have to hope that there was some part that was good, any kind of positive aspect at all to that time in our lives, the tiniest little bit of redeeming value to what we had. I'd hate to think I was totally wasting all that time. I know previous entries in my blog have said "moving on", and I know happiness is a choice I have to make. It's not like the whole tortured poet-samurai of self-pity deal has been doing a whole lot for me lately. But it's something I think I'll always struggle with, especially on the sort of day the world at large chooses to focus on that sort of thing. So yeah, it's tough. Being this lonely isn't all that fun. V-Day...not really a fan.

Moving on...finally

A few weeks ago I finally divested myself of all the associated detritus (physical, emotional and otherwise) of a previous relationship that, needless to say, ended painfully on some very sour notes. You know the stuff: the cards, the gifts, the letters, etc. Now, it's not that I wistfully pored over this stuff every day with brimming eye and quivering lip (it was all just gathering dust in the back of my closet), but admittedly that stuff was still there. The physical part was not so hard, although it's surprising how what seemed like a lifetime of memories fit into such a relatively small physical space as a couple of bags of undying declarations of "forever" and all the assorted bric-a-brac of months of affection.

The compartments of the mind, however, are another story altogether. Unfortunately, until they invent a way to selectively gouge out the memories from your skull, I'm afraid you're stuck with them. You might be able to shelve them in the back or box them up in the attic, so to speak, but they're still there.

In such a situation, some of us might try to selectively edit out those portions of our past that we'd like to forget, as if our sum totality were not made up of its individual parts, but I think the persistence of memory survives, as long as there is someone to speak for us. However, for better or for worse, the aforementioned detritus is gone, for the most part. It is surprising to any impartial observer that I could have held on to such things for so long, especially given the ultimate futility of such toxic millstones.

The secret is that all of that stuff was not, in fact, part of the world you and I are familiar with. Rather, it was all part of this surreal alternate reality I've been inhabiting for far too long now. That world was not unlike our own; the sky was still blue most days, people lived and laughed and loved and died just as they do here. The difference was that that world contained the faint but ever-present hope that what happened to me was all some kind of feverish dream or horrible misunderstanding, along with the futile hopes of some kind of reconciliation. You go through the days wondering when you'll wake up and why you haven't yet. It's a world dominated by the frontal lobes of the brain, where obsessive thinking, worry, and inflexible behaviour rule. And it's not the prettiest place.

Had I seen that world with a more pragmatic eye long before now, I would have seen it for the ephemeral puff of fantasy that it always was. The truth is that she does not love me and in fact never did. Cold and harsh, perhaps, since if this is true then I was subject to some acting of the very highest caliber over an impressive period of time. Nonetheless, it is a very necessary stark reality that I've been unable to see before now. It is just sad that it took me this long to realize that, and that I have agonized unnecessarily over such a non-issue, wasting the years away along with the rivers of salt and regret.

After all, in her mind it was all long done with, a curious irrelevancy, a quaint historical footnote. What used to bother me the most is that not once in all the intervening time did I ever hear one word of compassion or simple friendship, not a single tear of regret (even a crocodile one). Sigh of relief? Perhaps, but certainly no remorse. Now, love me or love me not; that is one thing. But I think you do have some kind of responsibility towards the lives you impact, towards the people you take into your own life (not to mention into your heart, into your bed, etc.), and it is wrong on so many levels to simply toss them aside and pretend that nothing happened, hoping it will all just go away when it becomes inconvenient or uncomfortable to deal with. Dress it up and spin it any way you like, but that is what happened. Were not the slightest bit of those feelings real at all?

So why do I keep mentioning this now, after all this time? No names or salient details are necessary or appropriate; all parties concerned know what they did and what happened, perhaps even better than I. This isn't about being vindictive or seeking vengeance or continuing to wallow in self-pity, all things I might have done in that other world of the frontal lobe. There will be justice someday and all wrongs will be redressed, but that time is not for us here to decide. There is a time and a place for everything under the sun, or so Ecclesiastes would have me believe, and that will do for now.

What this is about is the persistence of memory. It is about somebody somewhere speaking on my behalf and marking what others might find convenient to forget. I remember a wrong, not in hatred or anger anymore but simply for what it is: the essential truth of some very traumatic events that did happen. Their impact on my life will henceforth define how I approach the life to come ahead of me. In the absence of anyone to speak in my defense, this will serve to bear witness. Further, it is a cautionary tale to remind and to warn myself against the dangers of investing an excess of myself in someone who ultimately is not worth it if it's not completely mutual. I gave my heart too quickly to someone who couldn't give me hers in return. We do all deserve to be loved by somebody as much as we love them; in that she is correct. If it's not all there, then there really isn't any point. Now, that it hurt people I do still care about in order to learn that is indeed unfortunate, but that's how it is.

So I can forgive, and forget to a degree. Thousands of miles of distance helps to a certain extent, although it's unfortunate that I wasn't closer, since then my continued presence would have been an illustration of the consequences of this entire ill-advised scenario, one that would had to have to have been dealt with in one way or another. She walked away when I was not even there, and not having to deal with that, to not have to do me the courtesy of telling me why to my face seems like an easy out, a cheap cop-out on some level. I was callously dismissed out of hand as if I was nothing and always was nothing. It's quite a bit easier, I think, to cast someone aside when you're reasonably assured that you'll not likely ever see them again and have to deal with the very real, living consequences of your decision.

But no matter: the point is that finally letting go affords me a certain degree of closure, that frankly I could have had years ago, had I eyes to see. I'm writing this all down because it's therapeutic in some ways, but what's important is that I move on now and not waste any more time in useless self-pity and remorse. I am too valuable for that, and I thank her for showing me that. I am a man of letters with enough pride and dignity left to imagine that what I have to offer might one day be worth as much to someone else as I once thought it meant to another. Chalk it up to a learning experience and things to avoid next time (should there be one).

One of the most unfortunate bits of fallout from this particular episode in my life is that I focused on her to such a degree that all my other human relationships essentially atrophied. I need to get back in touch with humanity in general (not just the fairer half), to start making some new and better memories to replace the ones I have. In that vein, I am now taking applications, as it appears that I have several openings in my new barcada. Contact me if you wish to join.