Old Life

I left my former life in my old room.

I didn't know packing up would be that symbolic. But it was time to write finis to the past. "What is lost is lost," a French film said once.

Amongst the rubbish I unearthed a letter I had written in October 14th and 16th, 2004. They were my letters to P., where I wrote goodbye. (It really was a day before my birthday as I recalled).

But the words are dead now. Writing that, I remembered was the most difficult I ever had to do. I was torn between continuing and ending the relationship, then. But I had made the ultimate decision of leaving, which, in hindsight, would leave me with a little regret.

But the words have no meaning now, as probably the relationship does, right now. It was somehow a relief to have felt being so far removed from the memory when I saw the letters. I have made progress after all.

And the dead words must be burned. From ashes to ashes. From nothingness to nothingness. So I crumpled the letters, after reading them for the last time. I read every word, every sentence, every period and comma as though they were parts of an old map of a city I suddendly found myself in. But which I soon, too, must leave.

Outside, I burned those letters. Remembering all that was and had been, wishfully thinking that the memories would go up in smoke as well.

The past has held me hostage for too long. And I had thought I was ready.

I wished for someone very opposite to P. but ended up looking for someone like him.

"You broke his heart," PJ told me. At the back of my head I knew I did. I had explained it to M. why I did what I did, carefully not causing more pain that I had already.

I thought I knew what I wanted, now I don't know what it is I'm looking for.

"I've learned not to wish for anyone anymore," I texted PJ.

At 27, it is as if I'm just starting to discover who I am.