On wistfulness and the past
Sometimes I remember the things I’ve written from the past and decide to publish them sans the heartbreak.
In the past, my way of coping through heartbreak was to write. No matter how deeply depressed and hurting I was, writing always made me find the light albeit sometimes it’s a faint one, it always led me back.
I am my most authentic self when I write.
And I write the best when I’m in pain.
When I started dating my husband, it took me two years to write something again. As I got happier, my need to write diminished. I realised that for so many years, I have admittedly thrived in the beauty of writing about my pain. So when I became happy, I was at a loss.
I had to learn how to write happy.
Isn’t that the most absurd thing? Fast forward to now and I think I still write better nostalgic.
Over the years, I have accumulated so many pieces of writing strewn all over my Notes and random Instagram captions and I realise what a waste it is to just be there gathering dust, a memory of teenage hormones and bad decisions. Some of them I’ve completely forgotten who I was writing about. It’s funny, isn’t it? We spend a lot of time hurting over someone, only to forget about them years after.
So here’s one of them, one of the many littered across my Notes app. Faded memories and heartache; only the words remain.
Mount Batulao peak, Philippines
18 December 2015
It's fading away, you know.
You.
Your scent, your smile.
When I try to pull memories from my head, I get faded photographs of two people gazing at stars, an old Polaroid, creased at the edges, image gray and fuzzy.
I think eventually in the aftermath of love's ending, the passion dies, the romanticism blurs until you are left with tattered remains of morning whispers; remnants of magical nights long gone.
In the aftermath of heartbreak, you are left with a wreckage. The storm subsides, the ocean becomes still. The churning and crashing disappears and you are left with the sound of the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore. After the heat of the midday sun, the air cools down, ready for sunset's spectacle.
Some things are bound to end.
You're fading away. And like an old photograph, I hold you for the last time before storing you inside the box labeled "Lessons from a Stubborn Heart".
I close the lid. Now only beauty remains.
And so I let our story drift away.