We are a blank, a void, a nothing

So this is what it’s like. It’s ridiculous to think that it was that easy to let things go. I was delusional.

Weeks have passed since that day. A lot has happened, yet I don’t seem to care as much. In fact, I hardly recall the details. Did any of it even matter?

Days went by and fragmented episodes of that day kept reappearing in my head. Sometimes it hurt, oftentimes it doesn’t. I thought it was because what I felt was mere curiosity. I held pride in having the ability to see through people, to read them easily––and I can’t read him. It bugged me for god knows how long. I thought I liked him then, and it was more than enough to rip my sanity off.

My mornings proceeded like how it normally did, same with the nights. I was getting numb again, and it bothered and calmed me at the same time. It made me think that perhaps, after all, there was nothing beyond that curiosity. Merely, he was a riddle I couldn’t solve. Merely, I was a child that couldn’t get over the missing puzzle piece. Merely, I was attracted to an unfamiliar toy; I was attracted to disasters I haven’t seen; to that rare instance of discovering something that hardly entered my peripheral.

I concluded that maybe, I mistook my obsession with unsolved mysteries for love. There was nothing beyond what you allowed on the surface. I was bored, and I simply needed a story I could tell someone someday, to put into reality the illusions I often created in my head, through you.

There was nothing in you and in me.

We are a blank, a void, a nothing.

I enjoyed the company of pain so much that a slight sting for every minuscule time you hurt me gets romanticized. I was in love with my idea of pain––pain from your supposed indifference, from the lack of requital, from reaching out to something that is impossible to hold onto.

You were merely a mystery, simply a means to an end. Yet you were happiness.
You became anxiety and dependence, yet you were happiness.

I went through everyday thinking I did just as fine as I figured I’d be, but then there you were again, standing sheepishly looking sideways, shyly asking to be played with again. But who wants to play with a useless, old toy? Who wants to re-solve a finished puzzle? Time allowed me to realize that I’m too old for these things, and as much as I want to play I’m not going to enjoy them the same way I used to. At least not anymore.

Was I mad? Was I indifferent? Did I hate you? Do I hate you? I don’t know. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to feel anything. But I was bored. And I was tired of being numb.

And you resurrected the pain. I recoiled, curled up, and basked in its warmth, as I replayed the agony I felt.

Final

Mixed signals. False hopes. Either it’s me reading too much into your actions, or you’re intentionally leading me on. Or maybe it’s the third possibility – again, you didn’t know you were doing what you do to me. You were always naive, dense, oblivious and clueless.

What a load of crap.

Another post for you. We’re back at it again, aren’t we?

It’s not a lie, really, when I tell people that I’m not, or at least, no longer emotionally invested in you. In fact , I could thank you for not wanting me. You made me want myself.

But you’re dragging me into this state of confusion. Again. Am I trapped in the labyrinth again?

I’m not going to lie.

Sometimes I still think about how things could have been if I decided to change earlier. But then what you did to me was what urged this change, so it could lead to the same terminal anyhow. But then you could still change your mind and go back, couldn’t you? Even if this change came a little too late, maybe you’re not too late to change things on your side?

You can go back, can’t you? Maybe if you choose me now, you could still do something. Maybe we could make it work. Maybe I’d no longer have to look for someone else to share everything we didn’t with. Maybe we’d be better together. Maybe this is the right thing. Maybe we were right together. Maybe finally, you’d realize I was what you needed. Not her.

Not her.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

This is disgusting. These embarrassing and selfish feelings are beginning to surface again, and this is really, really, really, disappointing me. Pathetic, isn’t it, how I could conceive of things that way when I’ve been claiming to the heavens that I couldn’t be happier where I am now? You’re making me selfish and greedy, you know. And I don’t know if having these kind of feelings are enough to render me unmoved and apparently, still consumed by my thinly veiled desire to still possess you.

I don’t know. I could only think of it as an unfinished business, because there were no words.

It was a silent story. A story without an audience but ourselves.

I vaguely grasped what was happening, and maybe you did too.

But there were no words.

I didn’t know what I was to you, but maybe you knew what you were to me.

And it ended, right there. I hung suspended on the unknown.

Was it too late, was it too soon?

But it’s okay. Because I am okay now.

Right.

Think about it again.

You can still go back. You can choose me now. You could still do something. You can still try to make us work. We could still share everything I wished we did before now. We can still be better together, as better forms of our old selves.

But maybe I won’t go back. Maybe I won’t choose you anymore.

Because finally, I realized,

you’re not what I needed.