It’s around 1 in the morning, I’ve just quickly downed a glass of crisp white wine in your name and I’ve half the mind to delete everything that ever was of us on my phone. When you think about it — and I mean really think, carefully and objectively about it, Pablo Neruda made absolute, perfect sense.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Pablo, you sly old dog. Who’d have thought I’d be living out — quite literally, famous words written by one of my favourite poets. We loved for so short, he and I. It was a whirlwind; first came the curiosity about Spanish food — the discussion of paella, churros and the like, then came spending quite a lot of time with you because you had been group mates with one of my closest friends for class.
To be honest, this is the part where I admit I should have gotten out of this when I had the chance. I thought he would be leaving once the project was over but to my surprise, you stayed. (My mistake for thinking that was applicable in all aspects.) Then came you and I growing closer, fonder of each other — sharing our heart to hearts, slyly asking each other about our romantic experiences. It was good, we were close. I liked you and you didn’t know.
The definitive timeline of you and I would contain the moments you and I had shared; the times that I’d swing my legs over yours because of my short stature and the way you held onto my ankle, gently stroking your thumb across my skin the way you hadn’t with anyone else. The times you and I gave a light peck to each other’s cheeks to say goodbye, the times you and I would catch each other’s glances during class, the times you and I would slyly slip in the fact we found each other attractive. The times your hands would find their way to mine, or to my hair, to push the trimmed, dyed locks out of my eyes. The definitive timeline of you and I would show how you and I were too late.
She was there first; and she knew how to make her feelings clear. I’m guarded; I know better than to let anyone know about the way I feel until I’m stuck in an impossible situation — much like the one we’re in right now.
Forgetting is so long, simply because we remember first what we want to forget.
We’re selective about the instances, the words, the memories we want to erase. I have a theory that no one really wants to forget completely; the same way someone waits for a plea to stay before leaving, or a writing a suicide note to convince themselves of their choices — one way or another, we’re left to ourselves to decide about the irreversibility of the situation. When we love, though we question, though we are torn apart, though we are guarded, what remains in the equation is love.
When we forget, it takes so much longer because of our reservations; when we forget we take love out of the equation, which I too, believe no one is capable of without enough conviction.
Which is pretty ironic, considering I have half the mind to delete the 10 second videos of you playing stylist with my hair, or the text messages that made me laugh on the train home. I readily dived head first, so ready to love you that I realized far too late that it was only the idea of you that had me feeling butterflies and made me weak in the knees. I can’t begin to describe how painful it’ll be looking at you from across the lecture hall, now knowing that everything I’d imprinted in my brain to know about you was just an idea — an escape from the real you. The fact is that I don’t; what I know about you is but an idea. A concept. And I want to be able to love you for what you are, not what I nor anyone else thinks of you.
But at this point, I myself don’t know what to think of you. All I know is that I know I can’t keep thinking about you this way; not when she’s around because it isn’t fair to her, nor is it to myself. I can’t keep you up on that pedestal knowing you’ve already been reached, and by someone who got there a few short steps before I did. I don’t quite know what to do; I just know I don’t want to look back on the memories I have of you anymore because it hurts me, knowing that was only banter. I should’ve seen through it from the start; but because I didn’t, here I am instantly regretting the fact I’d fallen for you instead of those god damn jokes.
Forgetting is so long and so damn painful, but no one mentions how fulfilling it is to have a part of your mind and your heart emptied of anxiety and self-doubt when the person causing them is no longer present in your life nor your subconscious. It’s gonna hurt — god, it hurts so much right now, but it’s the thought of delayed gratification that the space is now reserved for someone you know actually deserves to be there.