Crushed at it’s birth

First love.


What shall I compare it to?


Perhaps I shall compare it to a new born baby; so beautiful and magical. A love that is unconditional, deep, indiscriminating and full of hope. Or perhaps I shall compare it to a pas de deux, each step calculated, each move analyzed. When a man and a woman fall in love, they both can’t seem to get enough of each other. No matter how many times they are wronged by the other, no matter how many times their hearts get broken, they stay. And that’s the magic in first love.


She was the winner in this game. I always knew it. The way he would stare into space for so long at the mention of her name, the way his cheeks seemed to burst with bloom when he saw her, the way tears would well up in his eyes when he talked about her. But I told myself the feelings would fade with time. I was wrong, they didn’t. I had lied to myself from the very beginning. In fact, it had begun with the end, and to these eyes the end looked like death. Did I say these eyes? No, my eyes. This is me.


Kiongozi was in love, and it was not with me. But I was in love with kiongozi. It was a twisted love triangle between a boy and a first love and me, the third party. A third party, who was trying to get kiongozi to forget about his first love. A selfish third party who didn’t care that first love meant forever, and promises that could not be broken, and sweet memories that could not be forgotten. And no matter how much I tried to make him forget, he still hurt, she had won. God! I wish that was me. I wish I was the one to whom he felt attached and connected. The one whom he couldn’t let go of.


For a moment I chose to drown myself in music. And I guess the music swallowed up the agony. And I was weak with gratitude that I had music. The music took it all, and I was free. For that beautiful moment I felt like I could love again, like I could fly.


And when my playlist began speaking hurtful messages I opted for the bottle. The booze drowned my sorrow and created an illusion in my screwed head that there was still a chance. The booze, it gave me the courage to pick up my phone and call him up, even put words in my mouth and made me say them. And I thought I heard her voice in the background calling his name. At that moment I stopped wondering how hell looks like. I was in it.


And then morning came, and I had no booze, I had no music, it was just me and my messed up emotions all curled up under my bed sheets. I wanted to stop the aching in my chest but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. I couldn’t stop him from falling for her all over again. I couldn’t stop anything. I couldn’t even stop the feelings I had for him.


Hold your glasses folks, let’s toast to first loves.

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Audi alteram partem.

Audi Alteram Partem- no person should be condemned unheard. And yet, he did. He condemned every bit of my being. He looked at me and all he could think of was the many flaws I had, or he thought I had. He looked at me and thought how easy I must be, pouring out my heart like that, so unlady-like. But when I looked at him, all I saw was perfection. All I saw was fire and ice, all mashed up into one package. And I guess by doing that I did condemn him too. I condemned him to meeting expectations he never thought he should have to meet. I condemned him to trying to trying to please me, trying to prove himself. And so we lived with the biased sentence that we had set upon each other, him trying not to disappoint, and I trying to redeem my image.

And repeated mistakes, he feared that most. And to some extent I understood that. I understood that I was somewhat of a mystery, even to myself sometimes. I was hard to understand. My intentions were hard to predict. Unconventional is the word, always showing a new trait out of the blues.

But I didn’t understand his logic. Isn’t it more adventurous when it comes unexpected? When you have to work frantically to get to know the other’s personality because you’re scared but at the same time thrilled? Disgusted but also impressed. I mean, they’re everything you ruled out when you jotted down your checklist. They defy every standard you’ve ever set. Yet for some reason, for some weird reason you still feel how you feel. You still want what you want and that confuses you. And isn’t confusion what makes the ride worthwhile?

The last wisp of fog had disappeared at noon. Warm sunshine glowed from the bed of daffodils and crocuses. A huge camellia, each petal in perfect symmetry, seemed to be bursting with blooms. If there was a word to describe the day it would be perfection to the last drop. Yet I felt so alone, so forgone, so detached. A tumult of emotions churned through my chest. Ecstasy. Sadness. Desire.

It had been two weeks of endless struggle. Struggling to not look into his eyes when I saw him because I knew the repercussions of that would weigh me down. Struggling to not meet him completely because how could I resist staring into those two charming balls of paradise if ever I did? Struggling to stay focused, struggling to delude myself that I didn’t miss him when I knew deep in my heart that it’s all I ever did, miss him.

It’s so obvious there’s some chemistry. And maybe I don’t know what love is, maybe I’m an overgrown baby who tries to find comfort in every person she meets. I just know what I’m feeling, and it’s different, and it’s because of him. He says he’s just like any other man I’ve met before. He says I couldn’t possibly love him, I just met him. What he doesn’t understand is he is more than a man, and this is more than love, perhaps the reason why the sky is blue, perhaps the reason why I lie awake in the dead of night, Perhaps the reason why my heart sings, perhaps the reason why I finally found the motivation to put my thoughts on paper. Perhaps he could be my muse. Perhaps he could be more than just my muse. Perhaps we could make sweet memories together, enjoy the moment and forget all about our worries. Perhaps he could touch me, hold me in his arms and allow me to melt in his embrace. Perhaps he could pretend he didn’t have any troubles for a day and kiss me till I can’t take a breath, till I erase all memories he has of pain, till we fall completely and irrevocably in love.

What could be more wonderful than lying frozen in his arms, feeling the treble in his chest when he talks and asking him questions just so he keeps talking, just so I feel his chest treble like she used to? And I would give anything for that, I’m sure I would.

For now I guess I’ll just have to contend to the fact that the only thing he’ll ever be is my muse. And since he is, I guess I should be writing about love again soon, or infatuation, whatever it is.

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