Updated: Jul 25, 2019
July 18, 2019
I am listening to Damien Rice. The sky is grey. There is a typhoon lashing the country. This moment is almost like a cliché. A familiar trope. A worn-out denim jacket perfectly hugging a body. A comfortable embrace from a friend.
Some of these ghosts are imaginary. Most of these pains are self-inflicted. But where is the line between imagined and real when the pain is the same nonetheless?
This nostalgia is safe. I could hum to these sad songs because these are not my pain but somewhere inside them is a splinter of my grief.
I have anticipated this heartbreak way before it hit me. Years before I met you, I have already broken my own heart.
I have control over how much to grieve now, unlike in a real heartbreak where the pain is so close to the ribs and bones. The center of the chest. I wanted to curl up and drugged the pain away. There was no saying stop, stop, stop my heart is breaking.
Pause please. Stop this pain.
Show mercy. Take it away.
Please. I’m drowning.