I've been battling writer's block for an awful long time then this came. It's a three part story, have fun!
The cerulean hue of the overhead azure skies began to be tainted by the pitter-patter of cooling noon rain. The once clear heavens exuviating its contents, below, agitated movements in a bid to elude the rapidly increasing droplets. The whirring of a chopper over the city and the excited chatter of multiple folk in harmony with the oncoming train, the symphony of a typically active day. The lone figure beneath the stairwell on 6th was utterly oblivious to the surroundings.
"Hey man, get a move on". This jolted me back to the real world. The one void of the love I imagined. The harsh truth. This one that wasn't filled with as much hope as in mine. That one up in my head, in which I retracted to constantly to avoid the despotic reality that presents little more than glimmers of a dead nonexistence. Pain apparently, is one of the strongest stimuli there is. The only other thing I had felt prior to this that was capable of this mind-numbing feeling was fear. The soul renting kind, the sort that created nullity in the fragments of ones being.
She had stared into my eyes, bored through my soul, deep into the taverns of my inner demons. We had lain waste to them and triumphantly stood above their remains. Funny how slaying them made her one. Seething hatred that had consumed me whole to mask the hurt giving way to nothing but pure pain. A shame my tears couldn't bear, refusing to roll down my face. All from one argument gone awry. She had been out with "friends" late into the night again, and worry stemmed from a heart of a serial monogamist came over me.
Running beneath the downpour that night stood two individuals silently shouting and hurling insults. A few hours, a bout of shouts and a couple of migraines later, and I was apologizing for Lord knows what. A drive round a few blocks was enough to cool off ( counting the occasional beatdown on a random tree) and I was back home. She was gone. Call after call straight into voicemail and this time I tried to be calm as calm could be. Some hours later she's back, apologizing about it all I presume (she's actually annoyed that I called that many times, but the version in my head is better).
I definitely lost weight in the times before our unavoidable split, but oh well. A couple of sessions with this psycho-analyst I looked up, and I had to realize that she wasn't hurting me. I was hurting myself. But haven't you also once experienced that sort of love that reduces your brain to jelly? The kind that blinds you to reality, that makes you "immune" to the hurt and ill treatment and all? She was my venene. The last 3 weeks were spent detoxing what was left of the "love", but this wasn't your typical split.
"Everybody wants happiness, nobody wants pain. But you can't have a rainbow without a little rain."
It had been uglier than you'd think, funny it ended as it had started. Under the rain. Different circumstances. In the stead of crazed love and complete admiration, hurt and pain. You see, you're never always at fault. And now staring into the distance, come the lost raindrops. Torrential. Racking. The raindrops fall down my face from my eyes down to the already wet ground. Salty droplets holding lost dreams and pain.
But the rain brings not only hurt. It brings sleep, magical. Forgetting about everything even just for a while. Bliss. My Idyll.