My Blog

Depth and Breadth of a Melancholic Heart

Many have known her not because she is a good catch or she can do anything perfectly but for the reason that she’s something more like a living stone hardened through time. People tend to wonder how can someone be this rough and alone. They think of her as a book to be read and a potential to be added in their collection placed in their shelves, as if they have understood the stories behind. But they know nothing about her. No one has ever did.

She is staring at the photographs again with a blank mind like those days that she is thoroughly watching how people come and go. She is wondering on every corner in her memory, asking herself, “When did the last time you feel whole?” She slowly drop the thoughts that reminisced for decades now for she will never get the chance to take a reasonable response. Sometimes, she loves to think that she is getting better each day being stagnant without love, but even how much she insists, she cannot. She often imagine the time when someone will come along and take the risk. She still long for the feeling of the way someone will see her as beautiful as the shinning sun. Especially, to experience those times when he will look at her with the truth in the eyes expressing that she’s the only one who can take every first and last beat of his heart. Someone who thinks that she is the only asthenia of his stronghold.

Having more of aversion, inadvertently, she is starting to decipher once more of what went wrong.  She started to picture out those old good memories as something to save, perhaps, she is thinking that she can have the remnants together with those people who wear the same faces. But the fear of being abandoned and forgotten have not left her side, to satisfy her anxiety, she exhausts herself on making people delightful in any ways on her account by providing them every single and little thing she can offer for she believes that sky is the limit if you love someone. She does things for them to have reasons to keep her not knowing that she was losing her own self too. Apparently, love is ineffable but it isn’t just enough to make them stay. People get tired of cyclical person like her and yes, she can’t prevent detachments. It is still inexplicable to her how making people happy turns into a quicksand.

All she wanted is to be loved and to avoid temporary people but she keep on losing in this maze of facade which dances from time to time, unable to see the genuine and ersatz ones. Maybe, she desperately want people to have her in their lives that even how hard it gets, she tries to pave the way of comfort and reliance for them to need her, for them to love her. She’s wrong. She knew it all along that she’s blinded by these self-created fallacies about love. Nostalgically, all the denied bits of emotion are coming back, there is a flash of unrequited times; the laughter she shared, the energy she caused, the time she wasted, all of those with the people who do not see her as valuable as they are to her. The odd and unfavorable memories rip itself in to a buried part of the story of a quiet pavement where she can only hear silent screams at the dark corner of it but the one who owns it has this bare face the same as hers. The abhorrence of life starts to get in to the empty holes in her bare skin striking directly to the dreadful gut of her own. She must admit that she is the masked, happy-faced, peppy and garrulous person but authentically, a melodramatic, pathetic and easily-attached one and yes, she cannot get rid of the fact that she is replaceable. Maybe that is why people will just see her, laugh with her, stay a bit longer, give her hopes that she can fix her own self till they discover awful things along the way and rely on her only to find that she is the typical person who is alright and who deserves to be alone and then poof! People will leave her like a finished test in the end of a semester and like a cold coffee in a rainy morning. She cannot hark back to the time when she can still build a strong foundation within. She does not have luxury of time to change nor to repel the misfortunes of life and surely, she will not have the chance to make myself believe that someday, in another version of reality, someone will choose to love and to stay with her till the end of a thousand repeated lifetime. For her, love, perhaps, is not destined to linger.

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