CONFESSIONS OF A DYING BRIDE
Tomorrow I will be someone else’s. Tomorrow you will never see me again. And here I am, today, to collect my due. Questions, Answers, Fleeting Indulgence.
I imagined you were gone from my life; you would never look back, nor would I.
And yet, tonight, thoughts of you are taunting me no end. I ask myself what I am doing on a balcony floor, cold and slightly shivering, with the wet marble beneath my feet, and infinite memories I should put to rest. Tears fall down, drop by drop, onto a page smeared with lipstick and ink, and your name scribbled over and over again. I found another relic from a forgotten time—a faded photograph inscribed with our names.
I thought I had burnt them all that night. I even flushed the ashes down the toilet. This discovery makes me want to believe in fate all over again. As I run my fingers over the slightly charred edges, I hastily bite back a smile.
It is almost poetic. Young people in love usually are. There was a timeless quality attached to it--Laughter in your eyes, silent pride in mine, your arms draped over my shoulder protectively, my hand around your waist, and my head resting on your chest. The memory of that night still threatens to bring a tear to my eye. You kissed me for the last time just moments later.
Tomorrow—I hate the sound of the word. I hate nearly everything it entails. I cannot help but dwell on yesterday; I cannot help but dwell on you.
I am not writing these words as a plea, nor a eulogy. I have even lost count of the words I wrote, drank, thought in your memory. I wanted to write, one last time, revelling in the prolonged moment of madness and the real illusion it brings. I wanted to write before I end my emotional existence.
Tomorrow I will be someone else’s. Tomorrow you will never see me again. And I want to tell you now how much I loved you; know if you love me still, or if you ever did.
I thought love died in me when you walked away that night. Little did I count on the constancy of human emotion. I wish I had been there to see the look in your eyes as you said you never did love me. I wish I could have grasped your hand and cried. I wish I could have asked you not to leave. But I was never there. Technology took even that tortured joy away from me. I wonder if I would have kissed you any differently then had I known I would never again be yours. I wonder if you would have held me a moment longer, or an inch closer, had you known.
Or maybe you did know. You knew all along.
Standing on a railway platform with tears in my eyes, having risked everything I had or was to kiss you farewell, I never imagined it would end the way it did. Now, a cynic in the true sense of the term, I look back at myself and laugh—a slow, sardonic chuckle. I marvel at my own sense of idealism, at the instinct that fuelled me.
You were everything I wanted, and it would be a lie to say that ever changed. My desire, however, is linked to the knowledge that no matter how crazy the world becomes, horses would never fly and chocolate will not grow on little fenced orchards by a mountain road. So much for idealism.
As I assume forced roles and a blind identity, I will feel a face tugging at my heart strings. Whether I die once, or a million deaths, the taste of dark chocolate will always remind me of you; as will sand and waves, and gypsy women, minimalist poetry and words. You will always be my muse.
Epitaph: “She lay, and lay complete.”
I imagined you were gone from my life; you would never look back, nor would I.
And yet, tonight, thoughts of you are taunting me no end. I ask myself what I am doing on a balcony floor, cold and slightly shivering, with the wet marble beneath my feet, and infinite memories I should put to rest. Tears fall down, drop by drop, onto a page smeared with lipstick and ink, and your name scribbled over and over again. I found another relic from a forgotten time—a faded photograph inscribed with our names.
I thought I had burnt them all that night. I even flushed the ashes down the toilet. This discovery makes me want to believe in fate all over again. As I run my fingers over the slightly charred edges, I hastily bite back a smile.
It is almost poetic. Young people in love usually are. There was a timeless quality attached to it--Laughter in your eyes, silent pride in mine, your arms draped over my shoulder protectively, my hand around your waist, and my head resting on your chest. The memory of that night still threatens to bring a tear to my eye. You kissed me for the last time just moments later.
Tomorrow—I hate the sound of the word. I hate nearly everything it entails. I cannot help but dwell on yesterday; I cannot help but dwell on you.
I am not writing these words as a plea, nor a eulogy. I have even lost count of the words I wrote, drank, thought in your memory. I wanted to write, one last time, revelling in the prolonged moment of madness and the real illusion it brings. I wanted to write before I end my emotional existence.
Tomorrow I will be someone else’s. Tomorrow you will never see me again. And I want to tell you now how much I loved you; know if you love me still, or if you ever did.
I thought love died in me when you walked away that night. Little did I count on the constancy of human emotion. I wish I had been there to see the look in your eyes as you said you never did love me. I wish I could have grasped your hand and cried. I wish I could have asked you not to leave. But I was never there. Technology took even that tortured joy away from me. I wonder if I would have kissed you any differently then had I known I would never again be yours. I wonder if you would have held me a moment longer, or an inch closer, had you known.
Or maybe you did know. You knew all along.
Standing on a railway platform with tears in my eyes, having risked everything I had or was to kiss you farewell, I never imagined it would end the way it did. Now, a cynic in the true sense of the term, I look back at myself and laugh—a slow, sardonic chuckle. I marvel at my own sense of idealism, at the instinct that fuelled me.
You were everything I wanted, and it would be a lie to say that ever changed. My desire, however, is linked to the knowledge that no matter how crazy the world becomes, horses would never fly and chocolate will not grow on little fenced orchards by a mountain road. So much for idealism.
As I assume forced roles and a blind identity, I will feel a face tugging at my heart strings. Whether I die once, or a million deaths, the taste of dark chocolate will always remind me of you; as will sand and waves, and gypsy women, minimalist poetry and words. You will always be my muse.
Epitaph: “She lay, and lay complete.”
posted by Farzana Kader at 7:00 AM
1 Comments:
Bush is forever saying that democracies do not invade other countries and start wars. Well, he did just that. He invaded Iraq, started a war, and killed people. What do you think? What is he doing to us, and what is he doing to the world?
If ever there was ever a time in our nation's history that called for a change, this is it!
The more people that the government puts in jails, the safer we are told to think we are. The real terrorists are wherever they are, but they aren't living in a country with bars on the windows. We are.
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