It’s interesting to think about how we make people who used to be
everything into nothing again. How we learn to forget. How we force forgetting.
What we put in place of them in the interim. The dynamics afterward always tell
you more than what the relationship did — grief is a faster teacher than joy –
but what does it mean when you cycle out to being strangers again? Because you
never really stop knowing each other in that way. Maybe there’s no choice but
to make them someone different in your mind, not the person who knew your daily
anxieties and what you looked like naked and what made you cry and how much you
loved them.
When our lives revolve around someone, they don’t just stop
revolving around them even if all that’s left is the grief and pain that comes
with their memory. Because you loved them, there will always be parts of them
that linger. The memories that are impressed on the places you went and the
things you said and the songs you listened to will remain. We all eventually
find ourselves standing in the checkout line, hearing one of those songs come
on and realizing that all of a sudden, we’re revolving around them again. And
maybe we never stopped.
Do you ever really forget your lovers’ birthdays, or all your first
times, intimate and not? Do your anniversaries ever become normal days of the
year again? Are the things you did and promises you made ever really
neutralized? Do they become void now that you’re broken up or do you decidedly
ignore them because there’s simply no other choice? The mind tells you to go
on, and forces your heart to follow suit I guess.
The kind of love that centuries of books and plays and stories have
regaled us with are the ones in which all expectations are defied in place of
love anyway.
I want to believe that you either love someone, in some way,
forever, or you never really loved them at all. That once two reactive
chemicals cross both are changed. That the wounds we leave in people are
sometimes too raw to risk falling back into them. I don’t want to believe that
we write each other off because we simply don’t matter anymore. I know love
isn’t expendable. I wonder, and maybe hope, if we ever just force it to be out
of that necessity.
Maybe it’s just that we’re all at the centers of our own little
universes, and sometimes they overlap with other people’s, and that small bit
of intersection leaves some part of it changed; that’s where we grow together.
The collision can wreck us, change us, shift us; sometimes we become eternally
undetachable and connected and other times we decidedly move away because the change
required to accept another person’s universe colliding with yours is a safety
we don’t want to leave. Either way, it’s inevitable that your universe expands.
That you’re left knowing that much more about love and what it can do, and the
pain that only a hole in your heart can bring. Whether or not that hole will
ever again include the person who made it that way, that’s for you to decide.
We all start as strangers. The choices we make in terms of love are
usually ones that seem inevitable anyway. We find people irrationally
compelling. We find souls made of the same stuff ours are. We find classmates
and partners and neighbors and family friends and cousins and sisters and our
lives intersect in a way that makes them feel like they couldn’t have ever been
separate. And this is lovely. But the ease and access isn’t what we crave. It
isn’t what I’m writing about right now. It isn’t what we revolve around after
it’s gone. We are all just waiting for another universe to collide with ours,
to change what we can’t ourselves. To fill us, to make us whole. It’s
interesting how afterwards, we realize that the storm returns to calm, but the
stars are always changed and we don’t choose whose collisions change us. We all
start as strangers, but we often forget that we choose who ends up a stranger
too.
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