Life is a cruel cliché full of ironies and disappointment. Only when it rains does he appear in my head. Why is that? Perhaps it is because the sound of rain dropping on a hard surface reflects the loneliness that pings in my heart, but of course that’s too dramatic. You see, writers these days have a list of terms or phrases that they are to stay away from, mostly because they’ve either been used too much, or they’ve lost their meaning and have become an empty shell of a word to describe something useless. Most often these clichés are about love, because for some reason love doesn’t have endless explanations, and those of us who are brave enough to be called writers are afraid of being molded as a copycat of someone else. A copycat, isn’t that funny? The thing that we are the most scared of becoming is sometimes the very thing for which we strive.
Love is a cruel cliché that always hits me in the face when I dream of him. He was once my Prince Charming, but now every time he appears in my imagination my heart aches and my fairytale turns into a nightmare. My fondness for him has not disappeared; in fact, it’s unbearably present, and that’s what scares me. Most days, I am able to distract myself with silhouettes of people that I never wish to know. But today, the only day that it has rained, I drifted towards him, and I am confronted with my never-ending wish for him. When I was with him, each day was crafted with smiles that spelled out kindness and eyes that only looked towards futures. And now, my days are flat lines consisting of monotone responses and gazes that are always locked to the ground.
I do not pity myself, that part is clear. Whenever I find myself looking at my past, looking at him, I do not anguish with thoughts of ‘what if’ or ‘if I had only done this,’ because the truth is, nothing would have changed. I am still that girl who can only grasp what others intend for her to do and not what she intends for herself. I am still that girl who wishes she can blink away her troubles and only make the days with smiles remain. And I am still that girl who never wanted to know the definition of love because she was afraid it was only going to disappoint her. He, however, permanently had his feet placed in the right shoes, and he never listened to the things others had wished for him. And he always loved, no matter how obsolete the object was.
Goodbyes are a cruel cliché that I never intend to remember but are ironically the moments I never forget. The day he turned without looking over his shoulder and he walked without hesitation in his heels, is the day that is painfully engraved in my thoughts of him. From then on, I only desired to hear his laugh, to see his mouth curl at the mention of me, and for the definition of myself to be a collection of words that he always keeps. But I suppose all of this and all of me, is just a copycat of other writers who have tried to explain love. If that is the case, then I will learn to accept the clichés that have be written into my life and, maybe one day, I will see a copycat of him, and will once again have a day carved out of smiles.