Love Rejected.

Heartbreak. No matter how many times I say it, in any different way the sound of this word is hesitant to roll from the tip of my tongue. We are children, until we have our heart broken. Once this inevitable initiation into adulthood occurs everything changes. Children are wild, free. They strut through the streets, oblivious to the darkness that lurks in the corners, the darkness that hides in the cracks of the road. The most horrible pain one will have to endure in their lifetime is heartbreak. There is no experience that could possibly be more harrowing. Your heart is your center, your core; its what keeps you alive, what sends sweet warm blood pulsating through your veins. When your heart is broken, you are broken. When someone undergoes this for the first time their eyes are opened to the feeling of suffering. Children can only know pain, they cannot know suffering, what it feels like to lose yourself to the torture that this degree of torment will bring. When I had my heart broken for the first time I wished that I could forever be a child, forever stay sculpted in this blissful state.
When I met him I felt something that I had never felt before, for the first time in my life I felt as if I could be myself. I didn’t want to play games; I didn’t want to go out of my way to make him like me. I felt as if everything I was was already perfect for him, like we had been born for each other. Things sparked with the tingling flames of lust. The feel of his embrace made me weak with emotion, pregnant with desire. I wanted him at all times of the day, everyday for the rest of my life. It wasn’t just passion that beat through my body, his laugh sang to me, his words spoke wisdom. I had always been weary in love, but when I met this man I let myself go completely. I lost my sense of reason, the tiny little voice that rests on our shoulder and reminds us to the right thing occasionally. Things remained like this for two months, two months of exotic electric passion. Then one day I woke up to see the shadow of his face being hidden in the ruggedness of his hands. I knew something was wrong. He was distant, nervous and fearful.
He told me he didn’t feel what he had felt two months ago; that what had started as a sublime burst of breath taking flames had dimmed to almost nothingness, flickering from exhaustion, its coals had settled in the dirt, its ashes growing larger while the heat that fluttered from it evaporated into the coldness of the air. He told me it wasn’t me, these things just happened. I muted his voice and gathered my things, the last two months of my life, the best two months of my life. As my hands twisted at his door for the last time I turned around to sadly frown farewell, but his head was turned away, fixated on a growing crack in the wall. I slammed the door behind me, as loudly as I could and once I left I felt tears crash at my cheeks like violent waves subject to a coming storm.
Thunder struck from my tears. I was upset, I was furious, I was confused. Things had been so good, they had almost been perfect and now they were nothing. He had been able to dismiss me so easily, without any warning, without any hints. I sat on a littered curb and gave into my sorrow. Strangers passed me, but I only knew my tears. I was alienated from the world. I didn’t know how I would be able to live in this world; with these people who had no idea of the pain I was experiencing. I cried for quite some time, for hours, until I lifted my head to see vivid hues of Smokey pink painted across the setting sky. I got up, understanding that it was time to go. When I got back home I collapsed my corpse onto my bed and pulled the covers over my head, wrapping myself in a cocoon in the hopes that I would leave my emotions in the world outside.
The next morning I got up slowly and quite late in the day. I stretched myself out of bed and yawned with the humming sunlight that masked the bitterness I felt. I went to close my curtains when my foot stepped on a paper that had found its way onto the floor. Curious, I reached down to see what it was. It was a short story I had written some time ago, one that I had brought over to my heartbreakers house to show him, but had shoved back into my bag when he showed no interest in reading past the first page. I sat down and threw myself into the story, living the life of the characters I had birthed. I had forgotten how much I missed writing. It was one of the few subjects I couldn’t speak to him about; he didn’t understand that part of me. I frowned when I came to this realization; I suddenly wondered how anyone could keep me from writing for two months. I had had writers block, something that drove me to a dreadful state of madness and he had not cared. He didn’t see the point in my writing. Then I found myself smiling, grinning with the radiance of the sun that begun to pour brighter into the room.
He had not understood me; he had not been able to help me develop who I already was. Like the ticking of time, the termination of our relationship finally made sense. If he didn’t love me, then it just meant he didn’t understand me. I needed someone who would understand me because there were going to be times when I didn’t understand myself, times when I would stray from the path of my destiny and I would need someone to remind me of who I am, of who I am meant to be. So he said I wasn’t the one? Well that just meant that he wasn’t the one for me, and I was one step closer to finding the person who was. I needed someone who understood not every part of me, but the most important parts, the parts that made me, me. I felt my smile grow like leaves branching to summers sunlight. It had happened for a reason, and I was going to be ok.