Nights and Mornings Alike

We were always very good at the theory of our relationship, even friendship… In theory, we could be civil, and loving, and caring for each other's aims and dreams, but in practice, without ever noticing this divide, in practice we clung to our egos with fervent, never stopping to consider the other, but never too stopping to consider our real selves and how much we were hurling our own dreams to their meaningless decay. 

It wash't a surprise then that we didn't separate nor did we finally take the cue and simply didn't appear back at the doorstep of our home, rather we prolonged the time of silence and,  unwillingly when spoken about loudly but willingly in private, we layered a great distance between us, one that accounted for half of the globe and half of the day as one, upon waking into another dreadful and cold, eventless day, could barely catch the last minutes of the dreadful and cold, eventless day of the other. 

Yet it did come as a surprise that it wasn't the silence that at last burnt to ashes the ties we worked and attempted hard to construct between ourselves. No, really it was the opposite of silence: the carefully well-crafted words that, somehow, reached us in the twilight of one's day and it the dawn's of another, that reminded our hearts that they were no longer crushed together by the same context. 

Without a context, it was as if we never existed.

Sometimes I dream of the other eventualities that could have played out in the shadow of our true fate—in one, he died and I moved on, but in another I gave up my wants and settled for his needs, and yet in another we sailed on a ship years later and by a coincidence were reminded of each other's existence and simply embarked on a path that we purposefully left unexplored until then. None of those, however, ever counted for a happy dream, although it possessed the sweet quality of fantasies from which one never desires to wake up from only to face the reality, that presents itself barren and dry of his presence and memories of him. For, without a mistake, when the future hands out its lot, memories no longer stand a chance against the powerful wind that approaches from these turbulent seas. 

Without memories, it was as if we never even persevered. 

For one second we were, then another, we weren't.