Stories are no more written-in or turn-out to have an Aristotelian formula. I miss that, the feeling of certainty, of a predictable beginning, middle and an end.
Some have an alright/ happy/ whatever/ sad/ haven't-a-clue endings. The beginnings, as I've realized are always 'super'. Like an idea conceived, a project begun, a novel's start, a crazy meeting, however, the fantastic element eventually disappears.
"He had come into my life uninvited and was now unwelcome to leave it."
Like the Oyster Seeker or the Monk with beads... it's the distasteful incompleteness that i wish to avoid.
It often surprises me how friends/ lovers/ foes have moved on, and how I have. The cordial hellos' also do not matter anymore. Only a faint imprint of that relationship is retained, is re-told as funny or nostalgic instances in conversations with random people.
How did I arrive to this? Monarch is in the country, in my backyard and he being himself saw to it that I was oblivious of this knowledge. It was not supposed to be passed on to anyone - especially me. What affects me is not his adamant nature or his nerve, or the fact that hates me now. We will not forget us or our friendship or the hilarious conversations or the letters or the body-art. I know this and hence never bothered to 'feel' anything about his annoyance.
A question that does not leave me is - How could he vaporize all that we put into a 9-year relationship?
I do not want us to end-up in the cold cordial texture that now defines most past relationships. It makes me puke to remember 'the way we were' and the way we have become.
This is a punishment of sorts, I am suffering. I hope he is happy with his decision making skills.
Adios - if that is what we say - then so be it.
