Everyone has a story. A story of their life. Every story has a beginning. Some have ended, while some more are still getting written.
To each, their story is remarkable. Their story ebbs and flows, encounter different characters, falls in love, falls out of love, embarks on intriguing odysseys. And in the whirl of life, they create history. History of their own life. Some go down as heroes, some as villains, yet others are never remembered, but by a few. But in their own story, each is a hero.
What are heroes and villains, if not but the opposite sides of the same canvas – one shining brightly with a picture, while the other – a mere wooden piece collecting specks of dust in the shadows?
My story has paused. It is paused, for a few years now. I remember the day it got paused: January 14, 2014.
I remember the day, but I hardly remember the face. The face which used to brighten up my days is merely a few pieces now – that I can put together after arduous efforts. With the days, the memory gets smudged at the edges more and more. I fear, that very soon, I won’t remember the face at all.
So I cling to these pieces. These pieces are all I have. I struggle to clench to these fading, increasingly dim memories with desperate attempts.
I try to remember the frames of our moments. The details which seemed fugacious at the time, seem the most important now. I remember the stone cobbled streets we walked hand in hand. I remember the Jason Mraz songs we danced to. I remember the staircase of the old, rugged building where I first confessed. I remember how brightly the sun shone the day we went on our first date. I remember the smile which never left her lips when we first kissed. I remember how it snowed the day she left.
Yet I don’t remember her face.
Hell exists – in the stone cobbled streets, the songs, the sun, the snow, the staircase. And the devil – in my mind.
There are days when I enter the hell on my own – breathing it in, to burn my heart. I enter, as I want to remember the days, and her face, and the magic that we had. And I stay there for a few days, resigned from life. But there are days when I feel trapped. And I seek freedom. And I let her go. And these are the days which erase her face bit by bit.
Slowly she is fading away. Every day I lose her to the dark tunnels of my brain.
So I grasp for the last straw of breath and start to write. I write, so that I remember her. I write, so that I can keep my promise – the promise that I will never forget her. I write, so that I can finally let her go. I write, so that I can be at peace again. I write, so that I can find the magic again. I write, so that maybe one day my story will start again.
But my story is still paused.
Image from Luizclas.