This is not a love story.
When does love end?
Is it when you have got nothing new to say so each other anymore? Or is it when the frustration over the other’s opinion becomes too intense? Maybe, more than anything, it is the sudden lack of satisfactory answers to one’s worries and fears that simply makes the whole thing crumble, isolating you from your partner, from your life, from the world. There are times, there are emotions in life that are not to be pacified with any of the ordinary and usual routines, when in a great gesture of wild despair and blind revolt, like a wounded animal, you tear everything to shreds that surrounds you, that has once comforted you, that encloses you in your habituated and settled space of consciousness. It is in an erratic ringing for oxygen, that you attempt to rescue yourself from a grip of old routines and easy answers, devaluing everything once loved and cherished in a sudden moment’s pressing stillness.
But then- when the fire is out of your eyes, out of your lungs and out of your inflamed mind- what do you do then? What do you feel when looking around at the burning bridges, the havoc you wrecked in the landscapes of your own affections and affinities? There is no other escape but to escape. To pack your things and leave without ever looking back.
Love ends when you have the impression that you are stranded in the midst of your own mind. It ends when you realize that, the all-encompassing frustration with your current state isn’t sufficiently apprehended, if at all that is, by the closest person you have thought to be in your life. And then, suddenly estranged not only from your lover but also from your very own being, you begin to loathe every single piece of reality, by which you feel betrayed and mislead.
When your lover cannot help you find satisfactory answers for your inner conflicts, find acceptable ways and means of self-realization and self-actualization, this is when love ends. It is when you end, in fact- you cease to be understood by ceasing to be understandable. You become a solitary, detached island of mystery and despair enclosed in a shell that resembles a phantom of former identity. It is a self-crisis, and a little death. Whether you’ll be able to rise like a phoenix from the ashes is unknown and uncertain, but it is up to only you, in any case. The world can’t stop its breath for it to happen.
And so we moved our separate ways. I understand it now and I forgive you the abandonment that you subjected me to. That everyone subjected me to. It was due to my self-chosen exile, it was a necessary step outside of being, for a moment. But while I was in prostration, life went on for everyone else, for you, too. And therefore now we are strangers there, where we have been the closest souls once before.