Monday, 25 June 2012

Fragments (4)

This has ended. The end came so naturally that no one knew when and why it happened and what led to it. When she disappeared for 1 week without a word? When she broke the holy triangle and broke the bond that kept the 2 of them together? When he realised that she was not significant enough to make him change his lifestyle and habits? Whatever the reason, the end has come, as it's bound to come, naturally, as though predictable and predicted.

I might be slightly exaggerating (now it's my turn to dramatise stuff), but if a man most of the time doesn't bother to fix tangible things (or get them fixed), perhaps he can't and won't try to fix intangible things either.

"He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night..."
(F. Scott Fitzgerald, "The Great Gatsby")

I still don't think the same initials are random, for everything has long ended with No.1, now everything ends with No.2. 

The man's dying, slowly. Every new day is 1 step closer to death, to the end of misery and sorrows. He has quite a bad health, and takes lots of pills every day, but it's not the sickness that slowly destroys him and will eventually kill him, but his lack of will to live since the failed marriage. I remember seeing him the 1st time, amazed, thinking I'd never seen anyone like him before, someone who builds walls around himself, who has almost no contact with human beings (except a few colleagues and acquaintances to whom he never gets close) and instead, is deeply absorbed in machines and nothing but machines. I remember feeling slightly annoyed with his queer personality and moody, unpredictable temperament, yet a bit sorry for him, for, as I kept looking and observing, he appeared vulnerable and fragile, like a lonely, abandoned child. So he's just waiting. Waiting for a death that comes naturally, or, maybe, waiting for an event tragic enough to prompt him to terminate his own life and put an end to his misery. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

"And because you treat me as 1 of the ladies on your fb, to whom you talk politely and casually, I've started seeing you as 1 of the guys on my fb, and don't even think it's some grudge due to childish pride or grotesque jealousy, I'm just bored, like I'm always bored when something's no longer fascinating." 

"I'm not dishonest- you can't imagine how immensely I loathe dishonesty. But it's my personality that I constantly change and can say 1 thing today and another thing tomorrow. I'm the last person on earth on whom you can rely." 

"Do you believe in destiny?" 
"Destiny? Perhaps I do believe that thanks to destiny we met and knew each other, but it doesn't work, not because we can't be together, not because of the distance that separates us, it just doesn't work." 

We have no more to say. No more to say.

Perhaps, if something's beautiful and unfinished, we'd better leave it unfinished and beautiful. An attempt to repeat the past might force us to face the harsh reality and endure it, and in the end, might destroy the memory. Everything would be lost. Deep in disillusionment we'd lose everything and also lose the beautiful memory. 

Stop categorise things into 'positive' and 'negative'. Impermanence isn't necessarily negative. 

I won't say all good things come to an end. I'll say this has ended, as many other things have ended, are ending and will end. With no sadness and no regret, with no unnecessary dramatisation, I acknowledge it as a fact and that is all. That is all.

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