Again, again

He holds me close, whilst I feel the current of my emotions crash against his chest. He cannot understand why something so simple must be made to be so complex. I no longer can either. He touches me without intention. Public. Pure. Sweet. I twist and turn, wondering why it’s not more difficult. Slowly I begin to see how much I’ve rushed in the past. Forced when I should have flowed. Clung when I should have let go.

He's new and yet familiar. As though his curves, his scent, his eyes are engrained in my memory. As though we’ve known each other all along. And then I realise - we have. He’s a carbon copy of all the hurt and pain, self-inflicted, wrapped up in a vessel I know too well. One that casts shadows on the walls that surround me. Offering a friendship I cannot keep. A fickle connection which requests certain conditions. Ones which do not suit, but I have come to accept all the same.

I see old wounds uncovered. Rusty and raw. Jagged edges slashing at my heart. Thought I’d buried them deep enough to stay long gone, yet here they are again; poking and prodding, bruising and cutting. Thought I was stronger than this. Strong enough to battle turbulent tides with the confidence of the fish which swim beside me. But I’m drowning. Tumbling in waves that spit me out onto the shoreline. Shattered and confused.

What it is to be here again, again.

I break a tooth. A symbolic display of splintered thoughts, which run chaotically around my mind. The pain is nothing by comparison to that which I feel within my heart and soul. The eternal ache of which cannot be as easily extracted as decaying enamel. Where is my love? Where is my comfort? Where is the one who seeks me, as I do them. Who wails into the moonlight and prostrates themselves on the cold hard ground, in loneliness and discontent. Where is he, whose fingerprints match mine?

I leave, walk old ground. Press my lips upon those who seek their attention. Share my flesh with the serenity and kindness I know it’s so very capable of bestowing. Yet, upon my return, I ponder, where is its solace. I was foolish to think it wouldn’t hurt with the weight that it does now. Naive to believe I wouldn’t long for the closeness to come again, quite as much as I have done since my return to the solitude I originated from.

Although, at least, it appears that the usual desire to create destructive heat has ceased. The rampant impatience subsided. The fierce clutching to lovers, as though they were rafts in a storm, all but dissipated. I feel a shift. A calm. As though I have surrendered to the suffering. It seems he has cured me of my sins, but not yet healed me of my wounds.

Now, I laze in the fields. Sun gazing. Clouds passing. My tears enrich the earth beneath me. In truth, I am sorrowful, but I know that soon love will come again. And when it does, I shall learn what it is to have patience. What it means to allow small seeds to grow in good time. Watch a thing unfurl and blossom, with good grace and not under my wilful command. I will try again, again.

Almost

He stuck the photo of us up on his refrigerator, beside the postcard I brought him back from my last trip to India. I wonder if they both now live beside the card I posted to him from Pondicherry. The one with the scented stamp. I consider how there are currently remnants of me all over his apartment. From the crystals on the windowsill in his bedroom, to the record player I leant him in his living room. The photos of me, filed in boxes, amongst the evidence of other women he has touched and tasted. The green chair that used to sit beside my desk, which presently sits at his dinner table.

Does he catch glimpses of them and smile. Rub his rocks and think of how I laid tarot cards for him on the floor that time. Or am I simply one of many conquests, whose presence he keeps on the peripheral, just in case. A backup plan should he need one.

He calls me, allows me to whittle away my concerns regarding my past love. The one who used to be his friend, until jealousy and ego and myself entered the equation. I call him, listen whilst he relays his concerns about the one who always cancels. The one he immortalised on film, forever reminding him in every scene. Every so often, he reaches out, tells me he needs me, says we’d be great together, believes we’ll end up together, asks me to come back to the city we once called our home. And in those moments, I’m inclined to lean in. To embrace him and his offerings. Only, when I do, he leans out. Flooded with anxiety and concern that it’ll be too much or not enough.

So, I leave it to rest and we return to our normal ebb and flow. Pretending as though it never quite happened.

Eventually, I learn to to see him as uneven ground. Only reliable in his unreliability. Deciding to put new loves, that pass by, ahead of his requests. The ones that always seem unstable and formed in moments of late-night ecstasy, regretted and retracted come the cold light of day. I question if this will always be our way, or if we’re simply waiting for the right moment to arrive. The one that delivers a commitment worth having. A relationship we’re not afraid to have. Fragile little creatures that we are. Always running from what we want most, in fear of the heartache we have suffered one too many times before. Just two wounded birds, with grazed wings and hearts. Who’ve learnt to expect the worst. Disbelieve the beauty. As so often, our love has been lost to those who could not hold it.

I sit and consider the implications of such a love though, as I gaze upon the snow-capped mountains, which I have struggled through the darkness of night and Nepalese hillsides to witness. Is this my destiny, to always fight for the affection of those who know not the value of it. Those who cannot reciprocate it. Will I always seek the broken, to reflect back on me my own jagged edges.

I got you a crystal, I say. He responds with a nonchalant ‘cool’, as if the three hour conversation I had with the palm-reading gemologist, in the process of its procurement, was an everyday affair. It seems I continually lay gold at his feet, despite him barely acknowledging. Is this who you want, I ask myself. Is this the type of man you wish to give your magic to. Perhaps I’m finally tired of my own lack of appreciation. The way in which I’ve come to diminish myself. Acting the martyr in order to save those whom are unwilling to respect my sacrifices. Probably because I no longer do either.

A friend reminds me that samosas from street vendors in India come in two categories: good and average. The former, costing 10 rupees, is spicy, and filling. The latter, costing 20 rupees, is bland, and leaves you empty. I consider if this man is a 20 rupee samosa I’ve been pretending only cost me 10.

Meditating on a rooftop, overlooking the rippling waters of Phewa Lake and the bucolic surrounding hillsides, I inquire as to how satiated I really want to be. How much contentment do I truly believe I deserve. How many samosas do I need to eat, before I understand when someone is asking too much and delivering too little. And whether, in fact, I should try eating something else completely.

Full Moon

Restless limbs entangled in sheets that aren’t mine, in a room that carries no familiarity at all. I ache with fatigue, yet sleep evades me, leaving me to wrestle with my anxiety under the glow of a full moon so potent, it brought tears to the temple floor.

It seems, my growth is challenging me.

During these days, spent on land I have not traversed before, feet pounding on course ground, taking turns I have no confidence in, I feel the weight of my past mistakes, carried in my heart like stones. I cannot let go, yet the heat of the Sri Lankan sun, which follows so closely my every move, causes me to perspire in such a way that it feels like a purge. A purification. Embarked upon as willingly as is possible, when the suffering is too great to hold on to.

I sit at the feet of the Buddha with my eyes held by an old soul in young skin, one who knows what it is to live with heartache, to know and yet doubt. Our paths long entwined and now crossing in new locations, bringing a richness to our connection that fills me with life.

I am reminded of what it has taken to get here. Of what has gone before. Of what must be left behind.

The acknowledgment of my own betrayals. To myself. My heart. My soul. These new days, which have been set upon me, feel like sacred challenges, asking more of me than I have had the capacity to give before. They seek forgiveness. Require compassion. Demand courage. In return, they offer me the shedding of ancient burdens. Of which I have held onto like a life raft, sparing me from drowning in my own sea of emotional despair.

It’s time to swim.

Voices in the courtyard penetrate through the walls. Time ticks on and the sleeplessness fails to dissipate. Yet I am learning to sit with the discomfort. With the uncertainty of what tomorrow brings. Or indeed the next day. Or the next place.