domingo, 13 de março de 2011

Constancy


All through life he had been a constant. Always present in my most inner thoughts. Why couldn’t I just forget all about him? Now, when I had finally lost him, when there would be no more chances of him knocking on my door with some chocking news or friendly advice, I still could not let go of him.

My love for him had been a secret obsession for many years. I was able to understand that even though he was gone I would still think of him. But I always believed finality could free me. It did not. Not even his death had been able to free me.

Constancy in love was supposed to be a good thing. Jane Austen thought it so, she wrote a whole book about it. But I disagree. If constancy in love had been a good thing, I wouldn’t still be morning a love that never happened, a love that only made me sad, a love that is not a love in the likes of “Persuasion” or any other Austen masterpiece.

Looking at the old photo album that set on the table for all guests to see I remembered brighter days, when hope was still high. I also remember the day hope was taken from me in the form of a beautiful and intelligent blond girl with sparkling eyes.

How did I not see it coming? I had always known everything about him, his deepest desires. It was no stretch that she would charm him.

I should have known better than to befriend her. His loss was much worse when I knew that she had also lost him. 
My tears had to be contained; she would not understand that my love ran deeper, that my pain was larger and longer lasting.

I could not wear the black clothing she had on so gracefully. All eyes followed her: the widow. Did she not even realize that her individuality had been lost and she was now reduced to a title - a relation to a man that wasn’t even there anymore?

At least I could keep my own self. I was not one in relation to another.

 Yes, I had loved him but I wished I had not. It had only brought me pain. It had only brought him pain. For I knew he knew, I could not keep my devotion off my eyes just as he could not keep indifference off his.

So amidst family and friends I still kept my secret. I still kept my heart quiet. I hoped perhaps now, that not even a single glimpse of hope could be had, I could move on.

How wrong had I been! It seems I am to be in eternal waiting, and not for happiness. I’d be content with the ability to forget, to move on, to go to bigger and better things. But his image is still locked in my heart and it seems constancy is both my error and my blessing.


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