A Suitcase Of Regrets

Dear A. Heading home last night I have realized how distant things seem to appear; it is as if I am squinting to see my former self standing in blurry dunes of a far-flung horizon. Sudden awareness descends upon my lightheaded state and a creeping sadness threatens to intrude.

Things are not very encouraging these days. Work is a constant alternating bout with creative rush and logistical nightmare. There are days when it’s complicated even to breathe, and at times I sink into the dreaded seabed of despair.

I think about you and how easy things would have been if you’re around. Yet you are dreaming in another world, and waking up in another reality. Fond memories of you are still remembered but they seem to have diminished into occasional translucent blinks. It stings me when I call to mind our escalating amusement over a messed up oatmeal fix in your little kitchen at three in the morning countless full moons past.

All at once, last night, I am led back into that tussle we’ve had for my tactlessness over your lifeless pet poodle. How I became the embodiment of callousness when I abruptly suggested to “Get a new one” when it was later clear to me that you were still mourning over the fondest affection; that you are emotionally shackled over something that matters the most. You have taught me a lesson that nothing will ever be discarded easily if you pour your heart into it. That exact same moment it dawned upon me why children cry over broken toys: it’s not about the loss of things that wounds but the irreparable deficiency of intimacy between partakers of that bond. I have grown up in a lot of ways, though it cannot be denied that in much more ways I am still a struggling infant in search of my own truths. But during moments of daunting ordeals I think of your beloved deceased pet and smarten up.

My thoughts are scattered these days. .I’d like to flatter myself into thinking I am falling for a good feeling but in equal breath apologize for personal inadequacies that paralyzes me with the fear: that I’ll never be good enough for the pursuit of that deep affection.

It’s like free-falling in a bottomless pit and at the recesses of my mind I think it would be a great relief to finally hear that deadened thud when my head hit the ground and punctuate the plunge.

Beleaguered with self-doubts, here I am seven years later, standing in tentative crossroads clutching a once padlocked suitcase of fond remembrances, exhaling a bruised sigh of remorse. Yours in remembrance, LoudCloud.