Rhapsodies of the Barefooted Gypsy

We are all best selling authors in our own crazies

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Sometimes I like to live my life as if I am a main character in a best-selling romantic fiction novel.

All my heartaches and love life? Sure, I have written about it for everyone to know that, oftentimes, our own story (the plot, the people involved, the conflict, the climax, and resolution) are so much better and more interesting than what we can get out of the shelves of our favorite fiction section.

What’s fascinating about it is knowing that it is raw, unedited. It’s as real as real can get.

With regards to my story though, I’m quite undecided as to whether I’m still dwelling on the conflict or making my way to climax or rushing straight to resolution.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that I am no longer afraid.

No longer afraid to go back to usual places that remind me of that one character who is borderline responsible for the major conflict in my story.

For a while, I’ve been trying to avoid everything that reminds me of him–the shisha places we frequented, the greek salad we always ordered. I even stopped using my vanilla perfume because it reminds me just how much he loves that scent.

I guess that was my way of forgetting about him which is a fruitless task since I truly believe that we can never forget about someone, especially those who left a mark if not a scar.

I hear a lot of people say that, through time, we can forget. And when I disagree, they say it will happen. It is bound to happen but just not yet.

Well, here’s what I say, it no longer hurts, and I am already moving on, but that doesn’t mean that I forget unless, maybe, I hit my head strong on a pavement and hope it causes me severe coma that leads to amnesia.

I am relieved to say though that the brooding, lonely days are over. I can hear his name, and even smell the exact same fragrant on another guy and it will no longer shoot a big whammy.

I can think about him and look back at all the pictures we took, and read all his love letters and SMSes again and again and not feel that crippling sensation.

I can think about his face, imagine him kissing and holding hands with whoever took my place and the familiar rush of jealousy combined with bitterness doesn’t come.

I can look back at every single detail, and remember even the littlest moments and there is no more tightening in my chest.

It feels as though everything–the songs, objects, and places that I have associated with him and that I was keeping myself distance from–is finally mine again. I have it back!

Maybe I was testing myself today. It’s been exactly a month since I last saw him, and just out of nowhere, I decided to visit one of our favorite cafes. In fact, I am currently sitting at exactly the same spot, and waiting for exactly the same food we had the last time we were here together. I’m waiting for the tears to come. I’m waiting for the familiar feeling of nausea, but it doesn’t come. It doesn’t happen. Finally, I can indulge myself in that cantaloupe shisha and sink my teeth in my favorite chocolate crepe without having to fear a big meltdown.

What a scrumptious taste!

It is not that I don’t care anymore or that I feel indifferent towards him, but rather I am just acknowledging that I have let go.

I am recalling the person I was a month ago–overly dramatic, swallowed in emptiness and pain, desperate in my grave attempts of winning him back, I wanted him to know how much he ruined me, I wanted my feelings to get validated, I wanted him to feel regret and despair, but I no longer want that, I don’t feel like that anymore–somehow, something in me has changed or has been altered, and the person I was a few weeks ago just seem so strange and unrecognizable now.

What is left is a liberating feeling that I am more than OK–that I can go back to the previous pages of my book and keep reading and re-reading everything about this particular character and not feel damaged or broken.

Like I said, there is no forgetting because of all the imprint he has left behind. How can I forget when he will forever be in the previous chapters of my story. It’s not like I can just rip the pages where his name is printed in big, bold letters and just erase him like that. Unfortunately, that’s not how it works for me, but I find solace in knowing that those chapters do not hinder me anymore from anticipating how the story unfolds.

It has been a few tearjerker chapters, but it can no longer jeopardize the new characters that are about to be introduced or the new twist in the plot that is about to happen.

If there is anything I learned from reading one chic lit book to another, it is that the conflict and the climax makes up a good finish.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have a delicious lunch to devour, and another chapter to write!

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