To Tomorrow

I think it is safe for me to write now. The past week has been absolutely draining, emotionally speaking. I am not in 'a thing' anymore i.e. no more romance exists in my world now. For now. It ended, but how I wish it wouldn't have, or at least, would have ended well. God knows, the Spitsbergen, with its bare, frost-encrusted trees, pristine foreground, gentle, dusky breezes, and long empty stretches of road, provides the perfect back-drop for a parting of ways. No, instead the elaborate evisceration of my self-esteem was done in the sterile confines of radio-waves: via text-message.
I was truly happy, for once. For once, my mind, which is a busy hub of trilingual contradictory thoughts, was at peace. I had someone who exemplified perfection, and God, had I fallen hard! We were very textually active, but we used protection: no texting during class hours! I mean, I had received the stink-eye from a few of my professors over this, and that never happens! Never to Hermione! And there were the evenings spent in coffee, banter and a flirtatiousness that had an Old World Charm about it. And how could it not, really? One of my favourite memories involves us walking down the city's quaint Downtown, huddled under an umbrella which shielded us from the icy showers brought down from an unusually mauve sky. I now wonder if I made it all up: the romance, the...everything? It has to be a confabulation if my dream was that fragile. Whatever did I do to sour things so much that suddenly my texts and Facebook messages are being ignored? The one thing that made sure that my inadequacies and I were not left alone for too long, now, in a sick reversal of fortune, only serves to amplify those insecurities. I have debased myself so much by sending more texts, and more messages in supplication. It does not behoove me to do this: I, who was once all about an inexorable sense of self-respect, am now a whore. But, I miss what we had, I miss what could have been. I miss this person who brought such a lightness of being to my being. Now, the onerous load has descended upon me once again, and I...
I know I have been insufferable for the past few days. But I live in a Purgatory, where the sky itself may be lined with bars, stained with a crime that is probably not mine. Or is it? God, God, I have placed this series of incidents under every analytical scope that my mind can muster! And just like to the texts and messages that I send, there is no answer. I see no fault of mine, but I know that it is there. I know that I did something incredibly, abysmally stupid for things to get so bad. And, as God is my witness, I will find it! So base have I become that I yearn for some means by which all of this turns out to be a huge misunderstanding, and that we could go back to where we were.
I lived the first few days in a stultifying silence, in imitation of the one who forsook me so quickly and so ungraciously. In classes, at my meetings, I stayed quiet, urgently waiting for the gloam to descend so that I could recede into my imagination, and embrace that phantasmic happiness. I knew all too well that, come daylight, it would disappear, but at least I'd have my few hours...My Facebook page is a chronicle of adolescent tragedy complete with an 'Eponine' profile picture. But people have been understanding: Hamlet has been checking up on me because where he ends, I begin. I find it hard to imagine a time when he wasn't in my life. Verlaine, practical as always, would rather have me move on, but he knows that I cannot do that too easily. We grew up together, after all! God, I miss him. Mercutio very patiently pried the chrysalis open and said things that were just like him, but such a comfort to my ailing heart. Stranded's solicitously profound message was the crutch that got me through Wednesday. There have been many kind offers: The Novel Duchess wanted to take me shopping, while so many people have offered to set aside evenings for coffee and venting. I am fortunate, perhaps I was a saint in my past life that I have such a magnificent support system. Maybe what my boss said is true, maybe I am a good person, and that none of this is my fault. Yet...
In a way, this episode showed me a lot of things that needed to be shown. I had some very earnest conversations with Butters, Bebe and my boss. Nothing changed between us as a result, and I am glad for it. I didn't really know what would change, but I like the status quo that I have with these people. Also, I don't think I have it in me to sustain another loss. Most importantly, I sat myself down, and we talked. We talked about the drama, we talked about dignity, we talked about the future. I am pleased with the results: they aren't ideal, they most certainly were not part of The Plan, but they are my conclusions, and I will find a place for them; The Plan will have to yield.
I have grieved enough, I think. The arid landscape of my eyes doesn't have any more tears to squeeze out over someone who clearly does not care. Probably never did. Tomorrow will be different: tomorrow, I will cast aside the blacks and greys of mourning and wear some colour. Tomorrow, I will pray that another tomorrow sees me back at home where I can sit on my familiar slab in the kitchen, and talk to my mother about the books that we are currently reading. Tomorrow, my eyes shall be bright and not blood-shot. Tomorrow, I shall be witty and lively. Tomorrow, I shall live the day, and not wait for the night. Tomorrow, I know that there will still be a part of me that will fervently pray for yesterday, and I shan't begrudge these supplications: one, because the object of these entreaties is deserving of these, but mostly because I know that such dreams are deliquescent.

I miss you. Terribly.

I wish things were like they were.

But, tomorrow I shall cast away the sombre blacks and greys of mourning, and wear some colour. Yes, tomorrow.

Until the next time,
GossipGuy.