January 2nd, 2011

Lola Rennt

Black cat

"People don’t die of a broken heart, they just wish they did."

As time ticks on the details blur and finding my way back becomes more difficult. Still I retreat into the memories to leaf through the passages you and I had once written together. I finger the evidence of broken promises, making my hands red with vicious little paper cuts, blood tickling my fingers. The details blur, and I curse the time that eases pain in defiance of the broken heart that had once said “forever”. But I am persistent: if we couldn’t hold on to the avowals of everlasting love, I can at least sustain the memories of what was and might have been. I cradle my aching sense of fairness, repeat like a mantra the words your sneering lips threw in my face, and relive the hurt all over every day: if love should fade, the anguish will endure.

I mope around and to keep happiness at bay I have dialogues with my cracked reflection in the broken mirror. I hide from the black cloud of my own depression under an umbrella that I defiantly open indoors. I get a black cat and wonder if a truly unhappy person crossing the cat’s path is a sign of bad luck for the cat. We go back and forth crossing each other’s paths, heralds of calamity, threatening to bring about various disasters according to the writings of Nostradamus, uncrossing each other’s paths, undoing the damage not yet done, lifting off the axe suspended by a frayed string over our heads.

And I try hard to hold on to the shreds of stubbornly waning pain, lest I forget the lessons that had once threatened to be seared into my soul forever.