It's been exactly eighty days since she ended our story before it even started. She is almost a forgotten memory already, which is something that may not sound convincing at all; as I've been counting days since her departure, but those who know me well would deem it as a justifiable act according to my intricately odd persona. I always count the days that pass after a tragic event I go through in my life to make sure that I will be fully recovered from its aftermath by the hundredth day. So, frankly speaking, I'm glad that I only need to go through twenty more days and then she'll completely vanish.
Some might ask why one hundred days and not more or fewer? Well, let's just say that I've been through enough personal disasters in my life, and according to those several experiences, one hundred days should be quite enough to overcome the pain and examine the losses.
The reason why I'm writing this entry on this specific day is because it's Valentine's Day. So, it was quite expected that I would think of her today, especially that the image of her pearl-inlaid ivory cheek hasn't crossed my mind for the whole last week, probably because I was on a vacation.
The recovery process started approximately a week after the closure. I unfriended her on Facebook, simply because her posts wouldn't make it really easy for me to let her go, not that I hated her, hell no, that was not and will never be an option. Her response was a childish one – she blocked me! She did it to get even! Well, she's an eastern girl, after all. I guess we definitely wouldn't have been a good match. She just assumed that it would be quite fine with me to remain a friend after all what I told her and all the feelings I exposed to her without any conservation, which was certainly a naive assumption. But I excuse her; as I'm almost doubtless that she has never ever fallen in love before, so it's not possible for her to understand what I felt at that moment when I decided to unfriend her.
Among the numerous things I'm glad for about this whole unfulfilled love story is the fact that I didn't end up with an exceedingly pragmatic person, considering that I am driven by emotions, impulse and passion; so we are the complete opposite. There's absolutely no shame in being pragmatic, it's just not a persona that would complement me; it would rather demolish me and every lively detail about my character. I'm dreamy, ambitious, unpredictable and rebellious while she's realistic, mainstream, predictable and too subtle. We really are two opposing characters; I can’t believe that I actually proposed to her. Love can truly dominate someone's senses. Another reason why I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her was because she was an inexhaustible source of inspiration to me. When I told her that she was my muse, I wasn't lying. As a matter of fact, a couple of weeks ago I imagined an alternative scenario, in which I wouldn't tell her anything about my feelings and would just keep her close to me as a friend, just to get inspired by her. At the beginning, I thought it would have been actually a possibility, but upon a more thorough contemplation, I realized it was impossible…I loved her…I would eventually have to confront her with my feelings.
It's indeed such a great relief that my feelings for her are almost gone. I'm writing these words with incredible ease, unlike the words I wrote three weeks after she broke my heart, which I will make sure that no soul will ever come across them! I was devoured by hurt and distress over her cruelty, well-fabricated lies and apathy. She manipulated me the whole time and didn't have the courtesy to apologize, so naturally, I had to be in a fucked up condition.
I'm only regretful for one thing about this whole unfortunate attempt of seeking eternal bliss that turned out to be an utter tragedy, and I'm sure she'll never know what it is. I don't have any regrets for the tens of flowers I gifted her after looking for them in more than twenty shops; as it wasn't the red roses season at the time. I don't have any regrets that I told my best friends about the relationship I had with her, and that soon they'd have to forgive me for abandoning bachelorship; they certainly lent me their shoulders to cry on and alleviated my pain. I don't have any regrets for being too hasty that I told the elderly men in our family to prepare themselves for the betrothal. I don't have any regrets about staying up all night on every fucking day waiting for her to respond to my messages that I sent in the early morning. I don’t have any regrets for always replying to her messages instantly and not playing the "hard-to-get" or "too-busy-having-a-life" cards, because I'm never fake; my outside is a reflection of my inside. I don't have any regrets for any of the honest things I told to her father, even if she was lying to me the whole time; because I am as true with people as I am with myself. I'm only regretful for the words I wrote for her…the poems, love words, hearty lines and every letter I wasted on her. I wish I could unwrite them.
Twenty more days and she shall be a relic…I'm looking forward to an upcoming future teeming with endless possibilities.
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