tsvetoslav shalev

Let her go, the voices advised. At least now, after all this, cut your losses. But I still wanted to believe what lovers believe: that the thing itself is better than any alternative, be it unrequited, or defeated, or insane. I wanted to cling to the image of love as the blending of spirits, as mélange, as the triumph of the impure, mongrel, conjoining best of us over what there is in us of the solitary, the isolated, the austere, the dogmatic, the pure; of love as democracy, as the victory of the no-man-is-an-island, two’s-company Many over the clean, mean, apartheiding Ones. I tried to see lovelessness as arrogance, for who but the loveless could believe themselves complete, all-seeing, all-wise? To love is to lose omnipotence and omniscience. Ignorantly is how we all fall in love; for it is a kind of fall. Closing our eyes, we leap from that cliff in hope of a soft landing. Nor is it always soft; but still, I told myself, still, without that leap nobody comes to life. The leap itself is a birth, even when it ends in death, in a scramble for white tablets, and the scent of bitter almonds on your beloved’s breathless mouth. No, said my voices. Love, as well as your mother, has done you down.

Sir Ahmed Salman Rushdie, The Moor’s Last Sigh

She wants to be alone. And I finally believe that to be true. Her eyes only ever saw shadows cast by my light. It hurts me deeply that no amount of effort stirred anything but fear in her anxious heart. A troubled mind, caught in a web of its own incongruous thoughts. We are given and denied after all. And on Monday of this week, she took away my ability to show her affection, to call her my own. I am too pushy, too needy, too kissy, too good to be true. I am not 100% myself; her gut instinct tells her, and I finally proved her right! Aha! Guilty of being honest and open, of being patient and understanding, of being kind and courteous. Not infallible. Imperfect is a way to describe me. An old raggedy doll gathering dust in a forgotten corner of a charity shop. A doll who dreamed of being a real boy someday. A boy whose manhood was rejected on the grounds of being untrue, conniving, and confused. All, because I wanted to be together, and she wanted me to fail.

So be it. Let it be my fault for trying to plant hope, goodness, and love in a place where only doubt and sorrow grow unimpeded.

My heart, staring at the contents of the self, caught in fine shards of glass.