ONCE UPON AN IRISH SPRING
Like everyone else’s story, ours started with a simple hello.
It was August and the rain has just started pouring in like needles falling from the sky. I barely remember how I exactly felt, but I did realize it was time to embrace the possibilities and gave myself another shot.
However, our story isn’t like any other love story you read on fairy tales or fiction novels. Ours, I doubt, has something to do with love in it, even when you know how lured I am with the idea. Consumed in each other’s fondness for anything only you and I can understand, we sailed on a year trip to what we thought was a journey together that will perhaps in time, bring oneness and profound understanding of our own messed up selves, but still be able to accept all the more flaws we discovered every day of each other.
I could say it was you who found me…at that time when I was busy started making memories in an oddly different means. The time and phase of being there yet too far away for us to touch each other’s hand, it left me broken without you knowing it. I cried in my sleep for something I could not tell you and then wake up the day after feeling like all is perfectly okay. We laughed and had bitten each other’s tail when we refute, even minute subjects that burst out of nowhere. And we said sorry and got on.
With you at the other end waiting, I felt relevant and wanted, not because my feet are nice or because you think I am smart. By being with each other while everyone’s in slumber, I developed a yearning to face each day with a decent spirit because I know somehow; someone is struggling also—keeping up a fight on his own. I had to be tough. I had to be stubborn not to concede easily, to be what I am not in real life. Many times you said I was being stubborn or too confident. I said, no.
In truth, I was neither both. I was just slowly falling into the trap I knew since day one, I may have to jump into in time…which I now did. I was just sadly, trying not to fall in love.
And then there comes the consequences of going further to a point where the ideas already choked you. I contend not with the world to lose you desperately, but myself. Could it be pride then that forces me to do the unthinkable? Or was it something only I alone could feel? Whatever drove me to hit that send button last night to end it all, I know one day I will regret it as I did with Tim. I know the ghosts of my escaping heart breaking through the forest of solitude will come and haunt me time and again. The floorboards creaking in the middle of the night, even the sound of an alarm reminding me what time is it in a land far away or just seeing the movie we often talk about, would left me morose, perhaps even, angry at myself. I know it’s going to be tough but I am letting you go, anyway.
The future sunsets I dream to share with you every end of the day as you come home tired from work, they will never happen ever. Not even seeing me barefoot with my oversized pajamas as I prepare our every late night meal in the kitchen. No more of that, darling.
No more dreams of Irish spring when flowers begin to grow again. Or winter or the happy summers together.
August is so close at hand. In barely forty days, my favourite month will come waving at me again with her hellos of rainshowers. The rain would be great. As a pluviouphile, it’s all I ever wanted to see after months of fighting the heat. But this year has been quite different. As it ends, I found myself coping up with the truth that summer is on its final stage. I felt betraying myself for loving the sun this year when I should only be comforted by the sight of rain pelting the dried dusty paths of the sidewalk.
In between every petty argument, I knew somewhere there was something none of us can do to pursue what we’ve started. Rather, I felt a stinging blow every time you mention of our time together wearing socks or being barefoot exploring life in the future. But I do not live for dreams this time. I want it to be real. I shall be missing you then as soon as you relent to my request of freedom, but you know, I can keep up with this life still. I am good at that—pretending to be okay when inside, the walls are already crushing in on me.