We paint pictures of people. We’re our own Picasso, painting cubist abstract faces of those sitting in front of us. That’s why muses often become lovers. The artist paints and molds and shapes the muse into his liking. How could you not fall in love with your own creation? I once texted a boy who lived across the sea. We texted for a month after I left. He was a romantic. Then one day, we picked up the phone and greeted each other with our names. He pronounced mine wrong. Although he forgot my name, I didn’t forget his. But I did forget how he sounded like. Curt. Brisk. Rough like a brush. Broke my illusion of him really. When I went through my break up last year, my mom’s friend told me that when we break up with someone, we’re not just grieving the loss of that person. We’re also grieving the loss of our hopes and dreams for and with that person; our dreams of a fairy tale future, our hopes of what they could have been. I mean, isn’t that why we all hold on just a little longer? Hoping they’ll fit into the image we’ve created for them? When I looked down, my hands were smeared with paint. Yet he was of an entirely different color. In that instance I learned two things:
And that, was a rude awakening. My Last Relationship Taught Me Tuesday, December 28th, 2021 Graphic Design by Saehee Jong
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My last relationship taught me how to be a good listener. And by that I mean, he empowered me to listen to the quiet voice stirring in me, even when it went against his. He was kind that way.
He advocated for the frightened voice in me. And for that, he was a good listener. Never talked down to me. Never yelled. Not defensive. And in his way, he extinguished the fire out from under me. Boy could I get hot. Boy could I scream. And boy could I scream him into a corner and feel so awful about it. I’d scream and singed hot flames would erupt out of my mouth. I hated that I did that to him. It only happened two or three times. It’d happen when I’d feel neglected. Unheard. I thought if I screamed louder, I’d get my point across. Reverberate in his veins… it’d do the opposite... When I was a sophomore in college, my voice teacher asked me why I spoke with a shallow breath, rapid in speech like I was running out of time. I had never noticed that about myself. I told her with a question mark?—discovering why in that very moment—that I came from a big family. Shabbat dinners around the huge oval table with the aunts, cousins, grandparents, etc. were spent playing vocal musical chairs— the conversation hurriedly being passed person to person. When it’d arrive to me, or rather, when I found a place to take it, I’d speak loud and fast—taking quick shallow breaths in between—just before someone moved to the next chair and took everyone’s focus with it. But when I, the brushfire, simmered back to a candle flame, he’d come out from the corner. He knew exactly how to extinguish me. His temperament was calm like that. Earth like. But when I, the tornado, would hush into a tiny dust devil…he would peer through the curtains, step out from the safety of his home, look out on the porch and see a frightened girl, running dirt circles around herself on the driveway. My last relationship taught me how to fight. And to do it with compassion. My Last Relationship Taught Me Thursday December 24th, 2021 He is one of the greatest human beings you’ll ever meet. I hope you have the privilege of knowing him one day. Something in me says you will. As much as this collection is about what my relationship taught me, it’s also a love letter. A love letter to him. But also, a love letter to love itself.
And although we couldn't be, we learned a lot of lessons from each other. A lesson in love and loss. And for that I will always aways be grateful. Let’s begin. |
About this PageHello friends! Here's my page on all things writing. From my short stories to my poems on people, places, and life itself.
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