Influences (or Why I Write the Way I Do)

Natalie Goldberg (free-flowing writing)
Clarissa Pinkola Estes (wild woman writing)
Jane Hutchison (direct-to-the-point writing)
Ernest Hemingway (simple words writing)

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

The Wasteland of Memory

they were together for, almost, 5 years. he was not the marrying kind, but stayed, kept house, had the precious key, built his wardrobe with hers. then the unforeseen. the separation. tears shared and shed. she couldn't just go back, to the condo they called 'home'. for almost five years. she couldn't bear the memories. only without a choice would she stay - after working late, returning from the field to Manila in ungodly hours, when the energy left after turning that lock inside, was to lie down and sleep. she couldn't bear two shirts he'd left - deliberately? - still there hanging by their wardrobe.

how can our brains and hearts work this way? memories are intangible, they do not have weight, cannot be touched, cannot be even held solidly, but they are enough to burden, painful enough to lacerate, and devious enough to kill with false hopes, and illusions.

for how long will the two of them keep this facade? this facade of 'moving on', keeping a straight face, laughing with the crowd but crying buckets inside, waiting for that call, the right words, the right timing, the right environment, the release, the surrender, to communicate, reconnect, give chance another chance, and live to love without the conditions, and assumptions. and before they know it, the line has been breached. there is no returning to that field of innocence. memory has permanently sullied the field, indelible in its destruction of faith and anticipation, the recklessness that comes in love without seeing.

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