That night was wet and I saw him drinking in the pleasures of intoxication. He was in a crowd of four. Their conversation was a silent one- their mouths were open but only the smell of lust was visible. It was the night before the day of Venus will dawn.
I was waiting for him at the fields of chaos but he did not come. My ghost saw him with the other three and at that moment I felt a glass shatter… I felt a butterfly die. For in that moment I saw him give love- the love I was longing for, the cure for my insanity.
It has always been like this…the same drama, the same tragedy. Time has been really cruel to me. He has made me suffer for more than five centuries. He has let me experience pain- the kind of pain which does not evaporate easily. And I am already tired of the entire restless and unfruitful chase for love because it will always come back to that same drama and that same tragedy.
A friend once said that love is a moment of bliss. It is like seeing a glorious sunrise every morning giving you strength to carry on. He also said that love should be treasured forever because it will make love bloom in eternity.
And this was what I felt when the realization that our acquaintance was more than just that. It was more than 500 years ago but the feeling is still fresh like the sweet nectar every bee collects. For the longest moment, it did not really matter how my life would go on. What mattered was my love should be there, that no matter what happens it should not be lost.
It was a saccharine thought. My love was an idea imagined by a hundred neurons and backed by the wise thinking of my hypothalamus. My love was an idea created from the ashes of nothing and burned by an era of challenges.It was love.But no matter what I did, it was still not enough. Now, my bliss is starting to become a nightmare and the horror is killing me softly.
I touched his hand only once. Holding his hand was like holding a heartbeat. Like holding something complete and completely alive. When I touched his hand, I recognized him. I knew…
That one time was a golden opportunity. I captured and put that scene away in a heavily locked door. Hoping against hope that at least it would be the only thing I can keep to not become completely insane.
I once stood alone in a place where three roads met. It was raining and the night was singing a symphony to urge me still. I was holding a box filled with dark secrets, I was waiting for him. And as I miss him like the rain aching to kiss the barren earth, like the wave longing to crash upon the waiting shore…I finally understood.
I have been living in a cycle. It was a cycle of lost love which makes me feel disintegrated. It was a lot like melting but more violent and radioactive. I have been in this odyssey of love for so long asking question after question. Why can’t it be the two of us? And I keep on pounding my head. If I had realized it sooner, then I would have not wasted 500 years. It became more like 500 years of torture.
According to St. Basil, memory is the cabinet of imagination, the treasury of reasons, the registry of conscience, and the council of thought. I believe that in my years of existence I have accumulated memories of my love for him and surely I clang to those because I did not want to lose these. Memories cannot be recycled like particles or atoms, these can be lost forever.
So, I think I travelled great distances and conquered more obstacles. I walked on countless roads where I even forgot their names. One thing was for sure, though, all the roads brought me to one single destination.