October 6, 2016 § Leave a comment
true // love
What is this incessant melancholy that hangs around my spirit like stale smoke? I am contented, I tell myself. I have accomplished the things I set out to do this year. I’m poised for greater adventures ahead. With my birthday looming just a few days away, I have many things to be grateful for.
Why then is this darkness lurking just beyond my peripheral vision?
Simple. I mourn the things that played out strangely different from the countless rehearsals held in my head. I wrote the script but the actors didn’t like the lines. The props fell apart and the scenes… forever lost. No one would remember the original play, forever seeing only what unfolded. Would I ever dare pick up that beautiful script again, try again to make real my visions?
I strongly doubt it. I’ve grown cynical of true love, for what is true?
<blackout on stage; cue mournful violin solo; follow-spot on Woman #2>
I know love. I’ve tasted it. Shared it. Lost it.
I know passion. I’ve indulged in it. Felt its dying embers.
I know desire. Answered its call. And went home empty.
But what is true?
<blackout on stage as flickering images of random YouTube happy moments are cast onto backdrop, some random bittersweet music plays>
<follow-spot on Woman #3 centrestage>
True is what you are to yourself. True is what you do for yourself, to make yourself contented with who you really are and not for someone else’s acceptance. True is choosing to spend time with the people you want by your side when you die.
True… is not another human who brings happiness, it’s you. It’s me.
It’s who we are in the dark, down on our knees crying, wailing, moaning in silent pain before washing our faces and going out with a smile. It’s the choices we make when no one is watching or judging, but choices we make anyway because that’s who we are. True is not an experience to wait for. It’s an experience we make with ourselves.
<blackout; Woman #4>
Nevermind the man I fell in love with who ghosted on me months after.
Nevermind the man who strong-armed me into having sex with him.
Nevermind the man who, after hearing that story, cursed and left me.
Nevermind the affectionate bastard with the wittiest conversation who really was just looking for the next lay. And who I unfortunately developed feelings for.
Nevermind the men I dated. And dated. And dated.
Nevermind if after all these experiences I doubted myself, hated myself, wondered why I was so pathetic, stupid, blah blah blah… I knew deep within me that they just weren’t that into me. And for good reason.
I wasn’t ready.
Because I wasn’t yet true to myself.
<blackout; Woman #1>
I’m a mother.
<Woman #2> Writer.
<Woman #3> Lover.
<Woman #1> Teacher.
<Woman #4> Daughter.
<blackout; follow-spot on Woman #1>
When I can be true to all these different facets of myself, I will meet true love — every single day in the mirror.
But then, perhaps, just perhaps… I’ll also meet him at my regular coffee-shop around the corner. And this time, I’ll be ready.