Reflections in rivers. 

Sat in a bath crying. Honest tears but deceitful sounds which look for so many things. Searching for sympathy. Hoping to rediscover the affection. Wishing to cause guilt. All they create is more realisation of the accuracy and the growing possibility of resentment. The further I go one way the further she goes another.

I dunk my head under water for a second, seeing myself as if in a film. Victim of some tragic love story. It’s as if my mundane life would thrive on such a reality. It’s a denial of the far more prosaic truth. The end was inevitable and something I had wanted as much as her. I don’t like admitting things have ended.

At that moment I believed I was still in love. This was not love but desire. Logically, ideally, romantically we tell ourselves it is a desire to be with them now and for the future. We idealise a potential which is to palpably not possible.

What I actually desired was an eternal manifestation of a moment past. To rehave what was and to allow it to continue forward yet stationary. This is more frustrating due to its impossibility. The wound is irreparable.

What I actually desire is not even her. It is not even love. It is the known, which is very mundane. I knew what was; hence I want it to be what will be. Even though this can never be the case allowing ourselves to think it can be is comforting. If we can deny the acceptance of change we are satisfied. Satisfaction is what is desired.

Certain wounds force us to realise change. The removal of a present opens our eyes to the unknown. The darkness is not a comforting place to head.

The truth is far more pathetic than the grand theatre I like to create.