I want to tell you a lot of things, all my sentences will start and end by “I love you”. Cliche? I can hear you saying this, but believe me this is what and how i feel.
But what is love? I asked you once and you eloquently answered me, but apparently your love did not withstand your own stubbornness, your decisiveness or maybe your wisdom.
Again, what is love? I reached your shores exhausted and desperate, after long aimless journeys, where I denied love, denied its importance, I even denied its existence. Oh, my love, it didn’t take me long to surrender, I was afraid, worried and I didn’t understand anything, and I’m still afraid, I’m still worried and I still don’t understand anything.
Is it a curse? What shall I do? How can I continue living with such a gigantic void? How can anyone live after being split into three, the one who denied love, the one who loved you, and the current one who has to live. But don’t they all have to live? Does one of them have to be forgotten, so that life, that mundane life, can be proceeded. I wish I could keep the lover and kill the other two, anyway I don’t think that the old version, this silly denier, is still here. The challenge now is between the lover and the short- love story-survivor. Did he really survive? I have been haunted for several months by the same question from everyone that I know or even hardly knew, “ what’s wrong,ha?”. How I wish to be honest and tell them that everything is wrong, extremely wrong. I wish I was brave enough to tell them that I accidentally met love, and that this is the only thing I want in my life, and that nothing, nothing at all worth betraying this precious, pure and profound love.
No, my dear friends this is not my middle age crisis that you were expecting it to be scandalous, and this is not a mental disorder that seeped recently and I assure you this is not an illusion. This is something that I have never believed in its existence, something that I used to make fun of, something that is killing me everyday. It’s a miracle that I witnessed, and no body ever told us what happens after miracles.
The lover or the survivor, who should be in control? The survivor is fake, faking that he is ok, hiding behind the sudden migraine visits, and complaining from the war, the devaluation, the traffic and everything except the only thing he should complain about. However, the lover is crazy, the lover is a wreck, the lover is pathetic. Who could bear his never ending questions, sighs and cries about love. They are all disbelievers just like his old version, they can’t imagine or accept that there is still a place and a time for love now.
How I wish that you can help or advise? Although I would not bear your rationality. May be you were too scared to continue, what was it that scared you that much? Boredom? That moment when the morning texts, the phone calls and the dinners feel like unbearable burdens. Or were you scared of our mood swings? The pace of all what happened between us should have scared me too, but that what happened, neither of us understood it then. The survivor, although no one survives love stories, is incapable of being in charge, for most of the day the lover is present with all his melancholy , vigor and pain. Here he is, the lover, writing so that the story outlives you both.
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